


This World's Ashes

by sunshineandthemoonlight



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: All major characters are okay though, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Comeplay, Fluff, Harry has a pet dog called Josephine, Louis Tomlinson Rides Harry Styles, M/M, Past Harry Styles/Original Male Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27763498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshineandthemoonlight/pseuds/sunshineandthemoonlight
Summary: The man stares at him, and all Harry can hear is his own heartbeat, racing.Then the stranger turns away. He walks a few paces and bends down, picking up a large knife from the ground and shoving it into a pouch attached to his belt.“I won’t hurt you, you know.”Harry’s eyes snap up to the man’s face. He’s looking at Harry sincerely, palms held up as though in surrender. There’s still a knife in his right hand, though, so Harry is only slightly reassured.Harry swallows to combat the dryness of his throat, and then says, “I won’t hurt you either.”A post-apocalypse AU where Harry, battling his past as he survives in the woods, has learnt not to trust anyone except his dog. Then Louis crashes into his life, with his bright spirit and soft lips, pulling Harry from the depths of a loneliness he hadn’t realised he was drowning in. But there is danger lurking, and Harry’s not the only one wrestling with his past.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 76
Kudos: 229
Collections: Bottom Louis Fic Fest 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I genuinely can't believe this fic is complete! It's been an amazing journey and I'm super proud of how this fic turned out. A huge, huge thank you goes out to Victoria @larryatendoftheday for being a wonderful beta - I couldn't have done this without you! Thank you for your encouragements and insightful comments, and for sticking with me through it all when the fic ended up being almost twice as long as I had originally anticipated. You're a gem :) Thank you also to Mridu @killmygoldenn for making an absolutely gorgeous moodboard, which captures the essence of this fic so well! And thank you to the BLFF mods for running this fest, and to whoever sent in such a great prompt. 
> 
> There is a wonderful Spotify playlist for this fic, made by Vic @larryatendoftheday, which you can listen to [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7yljoWr1SUKVKrwOKCntYy). I would definitely recommend giving it a listen :) 
> 
> This fic is based on prompt 326, and the title is from the poem 'When the Apocalypse Comes' by Sierra deMulder. If anyone wants any further information about things mentioned in the tags then don't hesitate to drop me a message. My tumblr is @sunshineandthemoonlight if you want to chat there about anything at all. I hope you enjoy!  
> 

_When the apocalypse does come_

_I will rebuild our city with my tongue_

_I will suck this world's ashes from your fingers_

_I will refuse to let the fires of this hell_

_be the only thing that makes us sweat._

_When the apocalypse comes,_

_so will we._

~ Sierra deMulder

The only problem with having running water again, Harry thinks with a smile as he washes behind Josephine’s ears, is that it’s going to make him lazy. It’s a monumental relief, though, a brief bit of luck he’s certainly going to take advantage of, that the taps are supplying clean water. It tastes purer than any water Harry’s had in years, reminds him of vague memories from Before, and gives him one less reason to venture outside, one less risk to take for survival. As he moves onto Josephine’s front legs, he hums a comforting tune that he’d forgotten the words to long ago.

Josephine resists his attempts to lift her legs and clean her paws, but he’s in a good enough mood not to fight her about it. He does one final, cursory rub of her back, massaging the suds into her fur and giving her a little scratch to the rump while he’s at it. He doesn’t let himself wonder where the water might be coming from, what it might mean; he’s learnt over time never to question any instance of good fortune he happens upon.

Lifting from his crouch, he points a stern finger at Josephine. “Stay,” he instructs, and then grins at the sight of her, sodden and disgruntled.

He heads to the toilet, grabbing the large pot on his way and filling it with the tap on full blast. The rushing sound of water is vaguely comforting – reminiscent of simpler times – but mostly just exciting. He returns to find Jo motionless in the way she gets when she’s unsure of what’s going on, confronted with an experience that’s new and confusing.

“Good girl,” he soothes, settling in front of her and stroking her muzzle. “You see? A bath isn’t too scary at all, is it?”

He soaks a sponge in the pot of water and squeezes it above her head, watching carefully as brown-tinged suds drip down her face. She just stares at him, eyes wide like they used to go whenever she heard the strangled howls of foxes as a puppy. Harry rinses her fur of the shampoo, mindful to keep the suds away from her eyes. It feels nice to occupy his hands with a repetitive task, something simple and safe and banal, something he might have done Before, unguarded. Even now he’s listening out for any noise beyond those which he and Jo are making, ever-alert and always wary, always vigilant. Inattentiveness is how you get killed.

Jo startles him by shaking off suddenly, sending water and shampoo spraying in every direction. Harry splutters and winces back reflexively, but a full, unrestrained laugh blossoms in his chest for the first time in weeks, sounding rough and loud and unfamiliar. Harry feels lighter because of it, though, like he’s set his rucksack on the ground after a full day’s trek.

Jo shakes herself off three more times before Harry manages to rid her fur of shampoo entirely, and by the end of it he’s soaked and water is dripping down his arms, falling from his elbows in little rivulets. She gently bumps her nose against his chest, the way she does when she wants scratches behind her ears, and Harry is happy to comply. Contentment settles in his bones, and he feels warm despite the goosebumps breaking out across his bare arms.

Harry collects up all his supplies once Jo has had enough scratches, groaning as he stretches out his back. Jo pads away upon realising bath time is over, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind. She stops at the end of the aisle to shake off again, most likely splattering the shelves with water droplets, but Harry doesn’t mind. He decides to give himself a break, and clean up the mess of aisle four later. A glance at the gaping hole in the roof tells him it’s almost midday. He’s got time.

He’s in the middle of weaving a new basket when he hears it.

A chilling screech, distorted and inhuman. One of the macks.

Josephine is growling immediately, loud and defensive, hurtling towards Harry and adopting a protective stance beside him. Her ears are back against her head, hackles raised, teeth bared. Harry drops the half-formed basket and sprints to the back door, Josephine tight on his heels.

He quickly assesses the barricade, eyes scanning the tangle of wooden logs stacked strategically against it. It will hold back a horde.

The screeching continues, joined by other voices, a clamour that has Harry’s heart racing. His entire world tilts on its axis because they’re meant to be safe here, they’re meant to be okay, alone, miles away from anyone else. He pushes the thought aside. _Act now, fear later._

Next, he checks the cavernous hole in the east wall. The noises thankfully fade just as he reaches it. He takes a shallow breath. This is the hole he boarded up the very first week they stayed here, though he’s improved the defences since then. It hasn’t deteriorated between now and when he checked it two days ago, but he rattles the barricade just to be sure. It doesn’t budge, so he moves onto the next one.

The noises start up again, closer this time, and louder. They’re shrill and piercing, and it sounds like they’re coming from right beside him. Suddenly his mind is slipping and flailing, and he can feel mud beneath his feet, sticky and thick and swallowing him whole. It’s dark, and there are shapes in the blackness. His mind is splintering, sharp and painful and stuck, stuck, stuck. He can hear bones cracking.

Josephine barks, bold and brazen, and his whole body jolts. He’s pulled back to the present, surrounded by empty shelves and the jagged circle of sky above. When he looks down there’s only cracked, dusty floor under his feet. Josephine is still barking at the wall, defensive, always the one to save him. He forces his feet into movement. _Act now, fear later._

Even with desperate screams echoing through his head, pained and wild and filled with memories that are permanently etched into the white bone of his skull, Harry makes his way through the vacant building, ensuring all the fortifications are in place, strong enough to hold back a horde. By the time he’s done, his hands are shaking.

The screeching persists, and Harry can’t block it out, and it works its way through his ears, morphing into a voice in Harry’s head that brings him to his knees, nails digging into his thighs while it yells at him to _run, run, get away_.

He’s sinking into mud, feet stuck, red splattered at the edges of his vision, and he can hear the screeching, wild and inevitable. He’s submerged in mud and he can’t see, can’t speak, can’t breathe. Can’t save them.

There’s nowhere to go.

_Run. Get away._

_Run._

***

His mind returns to the real world in stages, small sensations gradually trickling back to him. He feels Josephine’s nose pressed into his elbow, wet and expelling warm puffs of air. There’s the sensation of the floor beneath his toes and knees and forearms, and his fingers are in his own hair, tangled. He’s curled up in a ball, back bowed, lower spine twinging from the stretch.

Opening his eyes, he’s met with the delicate flesh of his own wrists and the familiar cream coloured floor. He registers, finally, that the screeching has stopped, and the voices echoing through his head have ceased their howls.

Jo notices that he’s back and starts licking him straight away, his elbow and bicep and any part of him that she can reach, nudging her snout into the crook of his arm to try to get to his face. He lifts his head from the floor, straightening into a kneeling position and almost getting bowled over when she throws herself at him, licking his face with broad, sloppy strokes that he allows, for once.

“I’m okay, girl, I’m alright,” he murmurs, burying his hands in her fur.

He holds her against him tightly even once she’s ceased spreading her slobber over his face, just buries his nose into her fur and breathes, steadying his heart rate. He feels the bone-deep type of tired that he only gets after one of his episodes, like something has drained the power from his muscles or muffled his thoughts with a heavy blanket, the type he used to wrap himself up in during the cold winter months of Before.

His skin is tacky with sweat, and it doesn’t take long for him to start shivering.

Harry hauls himself up, forcing his limbs into movement and wincing at the stiffness in his knees. Jo bounds around him, joyous as ever, completely transformed from aggressive and protective to an innocent, friendly temperament. Harry wishes he could do the same.

Unfortunately, his mind is stuck on the worrisome realisation that they’re in danger again. The screeching can only mean one thing: there are macks on their territory. An entire horde of them, judging by the sounds they were making.

But possibly more threatening is the one factor that is completely unknown, utterly unidentified: there must be something that has brought them here.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry holds out on venturing outside his secure pseudo-fortress for as long as he can feasibly justify. Jo detests him for it, repeatedly whining at him and pacing in front of the exit pointedly each day. She fixes him with a grumpy stare every morning when, after she’s gone to the loo just two metres beyond the concealed entrance to their building, he immediately hauls her back inside.

When she’s not complaining about their newly established indoor routine, she’s bursting with energy, running laps between the aisles and bounding around Harry as though he’s a flock of sheep she’s trying to herd. On the second day, she catches two mice, crunching on them as she sits right in front of him, loud and distracting like she’s deliberately trying to irritate him in some form of payback.

That night, the macks start up their screeching again, inducing another of Harry’s episodes, just as terrible as the previous one. His nightmares come back, too, slithering into his dreams like hungry snakes, enclosing his mind in a tight grip until he can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe. Jo is there for him every time he wakes up screaming, terrified and disoriented. She’s his saviour and his sanity, letting him bury his face in the silver fur of her neck and cling to her until he feels calm enough to lie down again.

By the morning of the fourth day, Harry can no longer deny their need to venture outside again; the fresh greens in his food collection have dwindled down to a few dandelion bunches and a handful of wilting navelwort, and he even caught Jo eating a softening carrot the night before.

“Okay Jo, we’re going out,” he says upon hearing her whine at him hopefully from the exit. He grabs his spiked bat, his blade, and the new basket he had finished weaving the day before. “But you have to stick by me the whole time, okay?”

She simply stares up at him, excited. Harry sighs.

“Heel,” he says, patting his thigh. She bounds to his side immediately, easing some of the worries raging his mind. He rewards her with some scratches behind her ears. Then, steeling himself for whatever they may find outside, he removes the barricade from the makeshift door and shoves it open.

Harry makes his way to the area of the woods where he knows he’ll find some primrose and navelwort to harvest, keeping his bat at the ready, eyes scanning the trees for any signs of movement. Jo trots beside him, carefree and glad to finally be outside again, shoving her snout into every bush they pass. He watches her out of the corner of his eyes, checking to see if anything catches her attention, some strange smell or sound that he wouldn’t pick up on, but she remains untroubled for the entire walk.

She pauses to pee against a tree trunk, in a clearing that leaves them far too vulnerable.

“Jo, hurry the fuck up,” he whispers to her harshly. She looks up at him, wide-eyed and blissfully naïve.

Harry grunts out his frustration but uses the pause in their trek to pay close attention to the sounds of the woods, listening for any noise that’s out of the ordinary. He doesn’t hear anything.

The breeze picks up as they continue walking through the forest, rustling the leaves around them and pulling a shiver out of Harry, goosebumps erupting on his skin. They make it to their destination without further interruption, and Harry lets Jo roam the area as he drops into a crouch to pull up bunches of primrose, shaking the dirt from their roots before setting them in his new basket. He moves onto the navelwort next, ambling between two fallen tree trunks to pluck the freshest leaves.

By the time his basket is full, he’s feeling relatively comfortable, less anxious that they’re going to be attacked any second. He contemplates their chances at stopping by the garlic mustard plants to stock up his supply, but eventually decides he’d better let Josephine catch some food of her own first.

“Jo!” he calls quietly, and she rushes towards him, tongue lolling out. “You wanna catch some rabbits, girl?”

The words have her tail wagging immediately. She much prefers a fresh kill to the smoked strips of meat that Harry’s got in his food store.

He pats his thigh, and she comes to his side straight away. “Good girl,” he murmurs, picking up his bat in preparation for their next short trek.

Josephine is practically vibrating with enthusiasm as they make their way along the well-trodden pathway they have carved through the undergrowth over the past two years. Harry is mindful to remain as quiet and inconspicuous as possible in case any recent visitor to their territory is hiding out in these parts of the woods.

They’re approaching the grassier section of the woods where rabbit burrows exist in abundance when Jo suddenly changes direction. Her pace is slowed as she stalks through brushwood to Harry’s left. Harry pauses, listening out for unfamiliar sounds even as he watches her avidly; Josephine on the hunt is fascinating, and one of his favourite things to observe.

She treads deliberately through the woodland, hushed and focused, ears pointed. It’s a slow stalk, practiced after years of hunting, barely rustling the plants around her. She gets to be a fair distance from where Harry is standing, far enough that he feels a little uncomfortable, given the circumstances, but he doesn’t dare move and risk startling her prey.

Suddenly she stills, hidden behind a leafy bush. Then she pounces.

Her strong legs propel her forwards, lightning fast, neck stretching to bring sharp teeth and a deadly jaw in reach of the rabbit.

Her prey runs before she can grab it.

And Josephine, being a wolfdog with no understanding of the potential danger they’re in, decides to pursue it.

She snarls and sprints off, speeding through the undergrowth with her snout pointing straight ahead, eyes fixed on her target.

“Jo! Heel, fuck, get back here!” Harry yells as loud as he dares. But she shows no indication that she’s registered his words.

“Fucking shit.”

Harry drops his basket and runs after her.

He’s flying through the woods, feet quick on the ground, branches whipping at his arms as he passes. His right hand grasps the bat, heavy and destructive, and the other clutches his blade, its sharp edges digging into the palm of his fist.

“Josephine!” he yells, sprinting as fast as he can to keep her in his sights.

She stops suddenly, lifting her head high, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief. The rabbit must have reached its burrow.

“You stupid dog,” he mutters fondly, slowing to a jog and lowering his bat. “You daft, reckless, wonderful–”

He’s cut off by her bark, emphatic and shocking in the relative silence of the woods.

Harry halts suddenly, mind instantly switching back to full alertness, ears tuned in to the sounds of the woods, scrutinizing their surroundings. Jo only barks if she’s sensed something unusual.

She barks again and then turns back and runs towards him, circling him once before standing in front of him. Her ears are perked up but her mouth is open, nose flat and the tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth. She’s not scared, Harry realises, nor is she angry or defensive. Instead she appears… curious. Alert and wary, but also inquisitive.

Harry hears a rustling, the sound of dry leaves being disturbed, and his heart begins pounding. There’s something else in the woods.

Jospehine barks again. Then she takes off, heading towards the noise, focused in the way she gets when she’s hunting. Harry thinks his insides might drop out of his stomach.

“Jo, that’s not– come back,” he demands. She pauses momentarily, clearly unsure why he isn’t following her, but doesn’t turn back.

“Heel,” he says, slapping his own thigh. “Heel, girl, please.”

Desperation creeps into his voice when she ignores him, still angled to where the sounds had come from, and slinking forwards. Harry follows her, helpless to do anything else.

She lowers her head, the way she does when she’s following an animal trail, and picks up the pace, shifting into a run just as Harry’s about to grab her.

“Please, Jo. Please fucking–”

A figure jumps out from a thicket. Thin, bony fingers. Ragged scraps of clothing falling off its frame. Lunging for her.

“Josephine!”

Everything happens in an instant.

Jo whips around, snarling, ears flat against her head. The mack dives at her, screeching chillingly. Another figure emerges from the woods.

Harry is too far away to save her.

But the new figure doesn’t attack Jo. It hurtles towards the mack, colliding with it and sending it to the ground. Harry reaches Jo just in time to grab her by the neck and tug her away, transferring his blade to his other hand in the process, eyes fixed on the scene in front of him.

It’s a person, he realises. A person fighting the mack, grunting and rolling around on the ground, throwing punches and slashing at its neck with something in their hand.

“There aren’t any more,” a voice says, gruff and strained. Harry realises with a jolt that it’s a man’s voice, that the person is speaking to him. He can’t find the words to reply, just watches, frozen, as the man grapples with the mack, seemingly unafraid to get right up in the face of an actual deadly zombie.

His words remind Harry that they’re in the middle of an open woods, though, and he spins around to survey their surroundings, ensuring that the stranger’s words are true; there are no more macks lurking in the trees.

Josephine, thankfully, is fearful enough that she’s gone quiet. She’s tense, hackles raised in preparation for an attack, but sticks by Harry’s side. Harry’s trying to come up with a way to help the man without putting Josephine at risk when the screeching stops abruptly.

The stranger lifts up from the ground and pulls a knife from the mack’s neck with a grunt. There’s a gasping noise, and then blood spurts into the air, fresh and red and sickening. Harry can smell its metallic stench and he’s shaking, suddenly, vision blurring. The zombie convulses on the ground, legs kicking out.

Harry reaches down to grab Josephine by the neck, needing something to ground him to the present. This is absolutely not the time for him to have an episode. He buries his hand in her fur and focuses on the feel of it under his fingertips, even as he watches the man kick the mack’s reaching arms away and then stomp on its neck. Blood surges into the sky, vivid and terrifying, and there’s a resounding crunching noise.

Then the woods are still again.

The man stumbles away from the mack he’s just killed in a sudden movement that has Harry instinctively taking a step backward.

The stranger holds his head in his hands and breathes heavily, then tilts his face up to the sky and opens his mouth. He’s wearing a balaclava, one of the real ones made of a shiny, black, synthetic material that protects against zombie saliva, but the rest of his clothes are tattered and threadbare. The man pulls his balaclava off, turns around, and fixes Harry with a piercing stare.

Harry realizes, all of a sudden, that he hasn’t considered the possibility of this stranger turning his fighting skills on him and Jo. He freezes, readying himself to sprint home, or fight back if need be, tightening his grip on Jo’s fur.

The man stares at him, and all Harry can hear is his own heartbeat, racing.

Then the stranger turns away. He walks a few paces and bends down, picking up another large knife from the ground and shoving it into a pouch attached to his belt.

“I won’t hurt you, you know.”

Harry’s eyes snap back up to the man’s face. Now he’s looking at Harry sincerely, palms held up as though in surrender. There’s still a knife in his right hand, though, so Harry is only slightly reassured.

Harry swallows to combat the dryness of his throat, and then says, “I won’t hurt you either.”

“Yeah?”

The man grins. It transforms his face into something approachable, almost friendly, crinkles appearing by his eyes and his sharp cheekbones softening.

“Maybe lower the bat, then, mate?” His voice is soft and raspy, with a gentle, lilting quality to it. Harry abruptly realises that he’s still holding his spiked bat, raised defensively to protect against any threats. _This man saved Jo’s life,_ he reminds himself.

He lowers the bat.

Josephine bounds towards the man excitedly.

“No, Josephine! Heel,” Harry says. Thankfully she obeys this time, returning to his side.

“You called your dog Josephine?” the man asks after a pause, face scrunched in distaste.

“Yes,” Harry replies curtly. There’s a pause, stretching before them like a rubber band waiting to snap.

The man steps towards him cautiously, a knife still held in his hand.

“Put your knife away,” Harry warns, raising his bat again.

The man instantly draws his hands back. “Shit, sorry,” he says, and shoves it in the pouch at his belt. “Sorry, didn’t realise I was still holding it.”

“Okay.”

They stand, watching each other in silence for a few moments. A bird starts chirping to Harry’s left. Then the man speaks.

“Uh, I’m Louis,” he says.

“I’m Harry.” The words flow from his mouth instinctively, social customs from years ago still ingrained in his memory.

Louis smiles. “Nice to meet you, Harry. You’ve caught me on one of my best days, I must say.” He gestures to his own clothes, ragged, muddy and blood-stained, and Harry feels a grin tugging at his lips. His mind registers, finally, that this is a real, living person standing in front of him, smiling and speaking and sane. He aches with a strange desire to touch him, to feel someone else’s skin beneath his fingertips, just to be sure that he isn’t dreaming. Already he can feel a lightness to his demeanour, something slackening within himself at the ability to finally have a conversation with someone after so many months of isolation.

Years of controlling his own desires for the sake of survival is the only thing that stops him surging forwards and reaching for the stranger.

“Are you both okay?” Louis asks.

Harry nods, glancing down at Josephine. “Yeah, uh, we’re good.” He pauses, stumbling over his words. “I, um, thank you. For, you know. For saving her.”

Louis inclines his head in acceptance of Harry’s thanks, modest and almost shy. “’S alright,” he says. Harry watches his face, noticing the hollowness of his cheekbones and his pallid complexion. A chain of birdsong begins, caws and chirps scattered out into the fresh air.

“So, uh, you know anything about the big building to the west of here?” Louis continues.

He jabs his thumb in the direction of Harry’s home, his one place of safety after all these years, his sanctuary, and Harry’s logical thoughts kick in again. What the fuck is he doing, talking to a random stranger? Going against the one rule which has ensured his and Jo’s survival for the past two years?

Harry wipes the smile from his face. “Yeah, it’s mine,” he replies, keeping his tone blank. “An old supermarket, or something.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“Um…right,” Louis says, the brightness disappearing from his eyes as he senses Harry’s sudden aloofness. He brings a hand up to scratch at his scruffy jaw. “Is it, uh, do you stay there by yourself, or…”

Harry narrows his eyes when Louis trails off. “Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t offer any further information.

Louis rocks back onto his heels, and then forwards onto his toes. The sound of a twig snapping makes Harry jump.

It was just caused by Jo, though, who has hurtled forward to sniff Louis inquisitively. Harry has never known her to be so receptive to strangers before. Perhaps she can tell, somehow, that Louis saved her life. Louis bends down and starts rubbing up her back, laughing delightedly and pressing his face into her fur. Harry panics, suddenly.

“Heel,” he demands, and slaps his thigh so hard it stings. “Heel, Jo.”

She comes trotting back, but nips his hand lightly to show her displeasure. Harry sinks his fingers into the fur behind her ears and scratches gently in an attempt to appease her.

Louis looks on with a frown. “Dunno what you’re so worried about. Not like I’m going to hurt her, is it?”

“You could be bitten, I don’t know.” Harry shrugs.

“What?” Louis asks, sounding considerably offended.

“Well, you just fought a mack. And I don’t know what you’ve been doing the past ten days.”

Louis seems to take Harry’s caution the wrong way. “Do I look fucking naffed to you?”

“Didn’t say you were naffed–”

“Well, what the fuck did you mean by it, then?” Louis’ voice is rising in volume, and Harry feels panicked, suddenly, that they’re going to attract the rest of the horde. He grips his bat tighter, transferring his blade to his other hand as subtly as he can, and glances at Jo to make sure she’s alert and doesn’t seem tempted to run off again.

“Excuse me?” he asks carefully.

“Christ, I can’t believe… what, so I can’t pet your dog after I saved her life?” Louis is shaking his head and speaking loudly, far too loudly, but Harry can’t hold back his incensed reply, matching Louis’ volume and growing aggression.

“I won’t let you touch her unless I know you’re clean, so you can piss off.”

“Can’t believe the one person I find that might…” Louis shakes his head. “Fine, you want me to prove I’m clean, then?”

He tugs his top up and over his head before Harry has a chance to form a suitable comeback, pulling it roughly off his thin frame and discarding it on the ground.

Harry barely holds back an audible gasp.

Louis’ torso is littered with injuries, his skin inked with a mottled collage of mauve and dark red, like the berry stains that sometimes cover Harry’s fingers in the summer. Surrounding the blooming patches of injured skin is the sickly-looking green and yellow of healing bruises, colours that are only found on the bodies of people who are clean and human and definitely not infected.

“Holy shit,” Harry breathes as his gaze travels over Louis’ torso. There’s a massive bruise, alternating streaks of deep purple and yellow, stretching across one side of his rib cage. The other, smaller bruises are interspersed with cuts and scratches, marring his skin harshly.

Louis levels him with a challenging stare, hands propped on his hips.

“Uh…”

Harry struggles to tear his eyes away from the distressing sight of Louis’ exposed skin.

“Do I look bloody bitten to you?”

“No, you– you’re clean, yeah.”

Louis nods in satisfaction at Harry’s answer, then bends down to pick up his top from the ground. Harry watches as Louis fails to conceal a wince, hand flying to his side and tenderly hovering over damaged skin.

“You’re badly injured,” Harry says, once Louis is clothed and upright again.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no shit.” He looks away from Harry, focusing on the trees to his right and scratching his short beard. He seems vulnerable for the first time, clearly uncomfortable at having been so exposed.

“You’ve, uh, you’ve got a cracked rib, I think.”

“Pretty sure it’s only bruised, so,” Louis shrugs, “I’m fine.” 

Harry’s mind is buzzing with a hurricane of thoughts, but Louis continues. “I haven’t come across a mack in… five days, now. Well, apart from that one,” he gestures to the mack he just killed, limbs twisted unnaturally where it lies on the ground, “but it was weak. Didn’t get close to biting me.” 

Suddenly Louis’ inquiry after the supermarket makes a lot more sense. He’s obviously alone and without shelter, struggling to survive. Harry brings a hand up to bite at his nails as he observes Louis, noting the sunken nature of his face with renewed understanding, and warring with himself over the decision he now feels he has to make. Louis rocks back on his heels, releasing a troubled sigh.

 _He saved Jo’s life_ , Harry reminds himself. Louis doesn’t seem the type to turn around and attack them in the middle of the night, and Harry is not one to see people suffering and do nothing about it when he has the means to help. In the end, this outcome was almost inevitable.

“You can, um, you could stay with me for the night,” Harry says softly. “If you wanted.”


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they return to Harry’s home, Josephine has become so enamoured with Louis that she’s opted to walk beside him, tongue lolling out contentedly. Harry watches the pair of them with narrowed eyes, disgruntled at the way Jo has taken to the stranger so quickly. He feels a little off centre now that her attention isn’t focused solely on him for the first time in years. He gently swings his basket, which they took a detour to collect, so that he has something to do with his hands.

Now that he’s established Louis is in fact clean and seems sane and kind and – according to Jo, at least – trustworthy, Harry feels far more relaxed around him. The brief ache he felt before, the longing to reach out and touch him, to confirm that this truly is another human being, returns with astounding strength.

Harry holds open the entrance to his home and lets Louis clamber inside, his fingers twitching when Louis’ shoulder brushes against them. He’s hit with a wave of nervousness, wondering what Louis will think of Harry’s precious sanctuary.

He needn’t have worried.

“Christ,” Louis says, wide-eyed as he makes his way into the building. His head swivels back and forth in wonder, and it might be comical if Harry hadn’t done the exact same thing when he first discovered the place. Jo trots off towards her bed, evidently having had enough adventure for one day.

“It’s massive,” Louis says, “I’ve never seen a building this big before.” He glances back at Harry, as though checking it’s okay for him to venture further into his space. Harry puts his basket down on the floor, laying his bat and blade inside it, and gestures vaguely with his hands, as if to say, ‘Go on’.

Louis ambles past three aisles, peering down each of them in fascination, cataloguing what Harry’s done with the place. “This is crazy,” Louis says. Harry frowns, wondering if he should be offended by the comment, but Louis continues hurriedly, “I mean, like, crazy in a good way. You just have so much stuff, and it’s all organised and everything. I’ve never… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Harry can’t help but grin. There’s never been anyone around to compliment his efforts before, nobody who could validate the pride Harry feels at having organised and maintained his home.

“What did you say it was, before the war?” Louis asks.

“I’m pretty sure it was a supermarket. There’s a logo on one side of the building and stuff.”

Louis nods at the words, thoughtful. He pauses when he reaches aisle eleven. Harry can tell that he’s drawn in by the sight of Harry’s food store.

“You can walk down it, if you want,” Harry reassures him. “I trust you not to, like, run off with stuff.”

Louis grips his backpack tighter at the words. He walks down the aisle and Harry trails right behind him, alert despite his reassurances. It’s the only reason he avoids bumping into Louis when he pauses abruptly at the sight of Harry’s smoked meat.

“That’s, uh–”

“Rabbit,” Harry fills in. “And these ones are deer, but we don’t manage to catch them very often.”

Louis gapes at the food longingly, clenching his hands as though resisting the temptation to reach out and take some. The words are out of Harry’s mouth before he has the time to think about it.

“You can have some, if you want.”

Louis’ head snaps to face him, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. Harry is struck by the bright blue of his irises, vivid and brilliant. “If you’re sure?”

Harry just nods. He watches as Louis licks his pink lips, then reaches out and takes two strips of meat. He bites into one, tugging at it with his teeth, and his eyes flutter closed. Then he moans.

“Shit, that’s good.”

Harry’s brain is a jumble of thoughts, a mixture of overwhelming pride and a surprising shot of arousal and a sharp _what the fuck am I doing?_ He banishes the arousal from his mind, locking it away like he does his nightmares and all the memories that haunt him. Right now he needs to be focused on the present.

Louis finishes the meat quickly, chewing fast, and Harry offers him some more without thinking. Louis takes three more strips and twists around to put them in his backpack. “Thank you,” he says, earnest, meeting Harry’s gaze.

His sincerity and gentleness, the sunken look of his face, and the memory of his injuries prompts Harry into saying, “I don’t mind if you take a bunch of stuff. I have a lot, so.” He shrugs. He’s doing well enough for himself that he won’t be left wanting if Louis makes a small dent in his supplies.

Louis frowns. “Are you sure? I don’t really have anything to give you in return.”

“Yeah,” Harry smiles at him kindly, “I’m sure.”

Harry’s offer gives Louis a spark, a spring to his step which is so contagious that Harry feels it reflected in himself. He finds himself guiding Louis down the aisle with a hand at the small of his back, pointing out his different piles of food and explaining how he finds them and preserves them. Louis listens closely, asking the odd question and praising Harry’s efforts in a way that leaves him glowing with pride. He can feel the heat of Louis’ body where his fingers rest against the thin material of his top. It feels so good to indulge in socialising again that he doesn’t let himself entertain the notion that he should be pulling back, that he can’t let himself get too attached.

Louis doesn’t seem to mind at all, allowing Harry to guide him as they navigate the aisle, snatching up modest portions of each type of food. By the time they reach the end of the aisle, he’s leaning back into Harry’s hand and his shoulders have lost their stiffness.

Aisle twelve is empty, apart from the locked cabinet that Harry still hasn’t managed to open. It contains bottles of spirits, alcohol of every possible kind, and cigarettes and vaping pods and a few adult magazines. Harry doesn’t like to be reminded of his inability to access what’s inside, of how he had spent his first few months here desperately scratching at the glass door in an attempt to reach the liquor and drown out the visions plaguing his mind.

“That’s a locked cabinet, can’t get into it,” he informs Louis, making his way past the aisle, but Louis halts at his words.

“What kind of lock?” he asks.

Harry sighs. “It’s properly locked, I’ve tried breaking in. There’s a padlock on the door and you need a key.”

Louis turns to face him, grinning impishly, eyes bright. He looks beautiful like this, the battered and sunken appearance of his face replaced by a dazzling joy, a liveliness that makes him appear younger. “I think I might be able to pay you back after all,” he says. Harry tilts his head in question, confused.

Louis scurries over to the cabinet, dumping his backpack on the ground and digging through it, emerging from his search with a wire clutched in one hand. “Aha!” 

Harry watches in fascination as Louis examines the padlock, bends the wire into a crooked shape and jams it into the lock.

“You can pick locks?” Harry asks, wonder colouring his tone.

Louis hums in response, evidently absorbed by his task. Harry waits with bated breath, finding his eyes drawn to the line of Louis’ body: the bumps of his spine showing through his top, his thin arms with tendons and wiry muscles visible beneath the skin, and the unexpected roundness of his bum. He tears his eyes away the instant he hears Louis shout, gleefully, “I fucking did it!”

Louis tugs the cabinet open, wincing a little at the grating sound of unused, rusty hinges squeaking, then steps back so Harry can rifle through its contents. Harry pulls out a bottle of Grey Goose Vodka, staring at the label as old memories assault him, painful only because they remind him of what he used to have, of who he’s lost. He sets the bottle down on the ground, hands shaking.

He passes over the vaping supplies quickly but pauses when, upon reaching the adult magazines and grabbing one with a racy image of a muscled man on the front, he hears a chuckle. Louis is grinning at him, observing him with that same transformative smile lighting up his face. When their gazes meet, he waggles his eyebrows at Harry suggestively.

Harry can feel heat rising to his cheeks and knows that he must be blushing. “Do you, uh, do you want anything? From here.” He waves a hand at the cabinet. “There’s way too much for me, and you’re the one who broke into it anyway, so, you can take whatever.” He stammers over his words a little, struggling to get Louis’ suggestive expression out of his mind.

Louis laughs softly at his flustered state, but his eyes are kind, crinkles emerging by their sides in the way Harry thinks they must do whenever Louis is truly happy.

“Sure, love,” Louis says, “thanks.” He selects two travel-sized bottles of vodka, and one of whiskey. Then he crowds right up next to Harry, who’s still frozen in front of the erotic magazines, and bypasses all the ones with women on the covers to pluck the same one Harry had taken from the shelf. He shoots Harry a cheeky wink.

An embarrassing noise threatens to escape Harry’s throat, so he quickly clamps his mouth shut. Louis just chuckles again, eyes sparkling with amusement as he turns away to stash his new belongings in his backpack.

The next few aisles are empty, save for the bird droppings littering the floor and the nests tucked into the shelves. Harry had given up trying to clean the mess long ago, resolving to let the birds make their homes in his space so long as they kept to themselves. Many times since, he's found himself thankful for that decision; in moments when, even with Josephine by his side, the loneliness became all-consuming, he would talk to the birds, giving them names and finding comfort in the sight of untroubled bird families going about their days.

Soon they reach the aisle that Harry refers to as his bedroom, warm clothes arranged across the floor to give himself someplace comfortable to lie. Jo is curled up in her bed, a circular bundle of clothes almost resembling a bird’s nest in shape, and she lifts her head to observe them lazily as they approach.

“Holy fuck, where did you get all these clothes?” Louis says, striding forward. He crouches at the edge of Harry’s bed and reaches a hand out to stroke gently over the soft fabric of a purple jumper. He looks bizarre, so ragged and dirty next to the fresh, colourful piles of clothing. A strange discomfort lodges itself in Harry’s chest at the sight.

Louis stretches further, rubbing his fingers carefully across the navy material of Harry’s favourite knitted jumper in awe. Harry stays rooted in place at the end of the aisle. The only people to ever enter this aisle, to see his bedroom and touch his bed, are himself and Josephine. Seeing someone else there, feeling the place where he rests his head at night, the fabric he’s clutched at and cried on and screamed into, feels distressing, almost intolerable.

“Stop it,” he says suddenly, voice low. “Stop.”

Louis whips around to stare at him, head tilted to the side, eyebrows drawn close. The moment he sees Harry’s expression, he pulls his hand back from the bed as though burnt.

“Sorry,” he says, but his tone makes it sound like a question, and Harry feels angry, all of a sudden, a raging fire of bitterness and calamity stirring within his ribcage.

Louis remains frozen, balancing on the balls of his feet beside Harry’s bed.

“Just get away. Don’t– don’t touch it.”

Louis nods, moving away quickly. “Sorry,” he says, and this time he sounds like he means it. “I shouldn’t have… I forgot myself for a moment.”

Harry nods, willing himself to return to a steady breathing pace, chest rising and falling heavily. His eyes roam over his bed to reassure himself that nothing has been disturbed, despite the knowledge that Louis did little more than skate his fingers over some cloth. He realises with a start that his hands are clenched into fists, nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms. Consciously choosing to relax his fingers seems to allow the release of the tightness in his chest, and tension drains from his body like the flow of water down a steep valley, rapid and graceful.

Louis is regarding him cautiously, clutching the straps of his backpack tightly enough that his knuckles have turned white.

“It’s, uh, it’s okay,” Harry says. Louis appears unconvinced, still eyeing him warily, though his grip on his backpack loosens. “Just don’t– don’t touch my stuff. Don’t touch anything in this aisle.”

“Okay,” Louis responds, his tone careful and measured, “I won’t, I promise.” The rigidity with which he’d been holding his body eases when Harry offers him a tentative smile. Harry’s fingers tap against his thigh, an irregular rhythm emerging as he attempts to steer their conversation into more comfortable territory.

“They were here when I arrived,” he blurts out. “The, uh, the clothes.”

Louis brings his hands together, staring down and fiddling with his own fingers. Harry detects what might be the edge of a smile growing across his face. “Aren’t you one lucky duck, then,” Louis says to the floor.

Harry huffs a laugh. “A lucky duck?” he questions.

“Mmhm,” Louis hums, and Harry knows there’s definitely a smile gracing his features now. “Something my mum used to say, when I was a kid.” He glances up at Harry and offers him a little shrug, looking endearingly young for a moment.

“That’s sweet.” Harry scratches an itch above his elbow and chances a gently teasing response of, “A bit bizarre, but still sweet.” Louis, thankfully, beams back at him in that way that brightens his entire face, teeth on display and the harsh cut of his cheekbones softening.

“Didn’t know supermarkets sold clothes, if I’m honest.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think they did,” Harry says. “Raiders had been here before I arrived. They took a lot of stuff and my guess is they dumped the clothes here because they didn’t have space for them.” He gestures back to the aisles they passed earlier. “I found them in massive plastic bags tossed in one heap.”

Louis bobs his head in understanding, and then they both stare at each other with strange, polite half-smiles decorating their lips, unsure of what else to say. Harry shifts uncomfortably, watching as Louis lifts up onto his toes and rolls back down to his heels again.

“Oh!” Harry remembers suddenly, “I have running water!”


	4. Chapter 4

Throughout the day, Louis observes everything quietly, a constant presence that Harry finds mildly unnerving, most likely due to its novelty. Jo joins them after they eat lunch, delighted when she discovers that Louis will permit her distasteful face-licking habit, something Harry has been trying to train her out of. Harry simply sighs when he catches her doing it, unwilling to put a stop to the behaviour only because of the gleeful chuckles it draws out of Louis. 

Harry devotes a considerable portion of the afternoon tending to Louis’ wounds. Despite his limited medical supplies, he’s pleased that he’s able to wash the cuts, bandage Louis’ sprained ankle, and provide some cream to aid with the bruising, feeling strangely satisfied that he has someone to care for. 

Louis has a remarkably extensive amount of knowledge regarding healing and medicine, and, after a brief moment of obvious contemplation, he shares it openly. 

“It’s the least I can do,” he remarks as Harry gingerly rubs cream over a bruise on his back. “Never know when it could save your life.”

He shrugs, and Harry’s finger digs into the bruise, and Louis mutters, “Ow, fuck.”

“Stop moving,” Harry scolds him. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Not used to all this yet.”

Harry hums in understanding and moves onto a bruise to the left of his spine. Louis’ skin is smooth beneath his fingertips despite the violent colours of his injuries, and the juxtaposition between sight and touch is oddly fascinating. 

“Probably a good thing anyway, ‘cause I’ll be on my own again this time tomorrow.”

Louis doesn’t say the words cruelly; there’s no passive aggressive element to his tone, nothing beyond statement of fact, but the sentence strikes Harry like a physical blow. His fingers stutter in their movement, and when he grasps control of his conscious thoughts enough to resume rubbing over Louis’ skin, he accidentally presses hard enough that Louis winces. 

The issue is that the more time they spend together, the more Harry aches for Louis to stay for longer than just one night. Having a human companion quenches a deeply rooted thirst that he had somehow suppressed for the past two years. Now that Louis is here, appearing in Harry’s life like a burst of water after a dam breaks, flowing directly into Harry’s wanting mouth, he’s concerned that he won’t be able to quell the loneliness for a second time.

They spend the remainder of the afternoon mostly in silence, but a comfortable sort of silence that Harry rather enjoys. He notices Louis’ fascination with his basket, and teaches him the best techniques for making his own one. It’s a relatively simple craft, and Harry is calmed by the repetition, the physical work, and the patience with which Louis tackles it. They communicate in a tactile way, Harry reaching over to reposition Louis’ hand, or guide his fingers in the right direction, and share tentative smiles. Louis’ a fast learner, and it doesn’t take long for him to finish it off himself. His elation at having successfully weaved his own small basket flows to Harry as though a stream connects their hearts. Harry finds himself grinning at Louis widely enough that he feels the stretch in his lips, and pride erupts in his chest.

Once the sun begins to set, streaking the sky with majestic swatches of deep orange and rose, Harry decides they ought to head to bed. He sets up a bed for Louis at the end of the bedroom aisle, sufficiently far away that he is confident he won’t have another fit at seeing Louis in his space.

“Night, Harry.” Louis’ gentle, raspy tone floats down the aisle.

“Goodnight, Louis,” Harry whispers into the rapidly encroaching darkness. Jo wanders down the aisle to lay beside Louis, resting her head next to his feet. Harry suppresses the jealousy that unfurls in his chest at the sight, reprimanding himself for being so ridiculous; Louis will be leaving in the morning.

His body tenses at the thought. Louis will be leaving in the morning.

There’s a strange ache in his mind, his chest, his very bones, at the idea of it. The notion of being alone again, for years, for the rest of his life maybe, clutches at his throat in a vice-like grip, impeding his ability to swallow. His eyes linger on the bundle of warm clothes at the end of the aisle, Louis’ chestnut hair sticking out the end. Saliva collects in his mouth, bitter like acid, and when he finally swallows it down an anguished noise escapes from his throat. Thankfully, it’s quiet enough that Louis doesn’t seem to have heard it.

Harry spends the night tossing and turning in bed, a whirlwind of thoughts crashing about his mind as he contemplates the risks involved in inviting Louis to stay another night. Every time he reminds himself of what happened last time, of the agonising grief, the gaping hole left in his chest after having his entire world ripped to shreds, he also recalls what his mother once told him in the dead of night, when only the trees and the bats could eavesdrop. _I might have survived this long, without you or Robin or Gemma to love. But I don’t think I would have ever truly lived._

***

As always, Harry rises with the sun, waking up and tilting his head to glimpse strokes of burnt orange in the sky through the hole in the ceiling. His first thought is of Louis. Rolling onto his side, he can spot Louis tucked snugly inside a cocoon of warm clothes. Despite the grogginess clouding his mind after a fitful night of sleep, Harry immediately hauls himself out of bed. 

Josephine bounds to his side, rising onto her hind legs and enthusiastically attempting to lick his face. He hugs her close, deftly dodging her slobbering tongue, and then bats her away so that he can approach Louis.

Louis looks serene in his sleep, his face free from the tension that tends to hide in the slopes and hollows of his waking expressions. Harry simply admires the sight, noticing for the first time how long his eyelashes are, and the adorable way he rests his head on his hand as he sleeps. A peculiar protectiveness bubbles around Harry’s chest, spreading through him until he feels as though every muscle in his body would leap into action if Louis ever needed help.

Josephine yaps behind him, irritated at the lack of attention she’s receiving, and Louis startles awake. 

His eyes flash open and he pushes his torso up from the ground, drawing a knife from the depths of his makeshift bed, all in the time that it takes Harry to blink. Harry instinctively raises his hands in surrender, leaning his shoulders back cautiously.

Thankfully, the moment Louis’ eyes settle on him, his body visibly deflates. A sigh falls from Louis’ lips, heavy and relieved. He lets the knife clatter to the ground and rubs at his eyes with drowsy movements. 

“Your bloody dog gave me a fright,” Louis grumbles. Harry struggles to hold back a laugh. Louis looks endearing with his face puffy from sleep and his hair tousled, strands sticking up in different directions. The bruise at the side of his neck has progressed to a dull yellow colour, on its way to healing entirely, and the bags under his eyes have faded slightly. There’s a rosy flush on his face and, adorably, his cheeks bear the imprints of the jumper he had substituted for a pillow during the night.

“Stay with me,” Harry blurts out. Louis freezes.

“I mean, you don’t have to, of course,” Harry rushes to correct himself. “But, um, if you wanted. You could stay another night.”

“Harry, I have nothing to give you,” Louis replies. He sounds incredibly weary.

“I don’t care. You already opened that cabinet for me.”

Louis regards him doubtfully. Josephine trots over to him and curls up in his lap, sniffing at his neck. 

“I don’t care,” Harry insists.

Louis runs one hand through Josephine’s fur, and rubs at his temples with the other. “You probably should care,” he says. “You probably should.”

“Well, I don’t.” It’s completely true, as unwise as the decision might be. Late into the night, when all he could hear was the chirping of crickets and the clicking of bats, Harry had come to the conclusion that he would ask Louis to stay one more night. Just one. The yearning of his soul to have another human being around for a little while longer took precedence over the narrow chance that something might go wrong, trumping his slight uneasiness.

Louis splutters as Jo’s tongue assaults his face. “Then I would love to,” he says, gently guiding Jo’s face away from his own, “if you’re offering.”

Harry beams.

***

The reassurance that Louis will be sticking around until the next morning adds a cheerfulness to Harry’s temperament, despite the fact that yesterday’s outing had, for obvious reasons, failed to result in Josephine successfully hunting any meat. It’s only once he’s set Louis up to bathe and is assessing what they have left in the food store that it registers in his mind: they need to go back outside, today. 

Jo whines at him as he collects two bunches of primrose for his and Louis’ breakfast. 

“I know, girl. You’re hungry, huh?”

She nudges his knee and then stares up at him with imploring eyes. He bends down to ruffle her fur, kissing her lightly on the snout. 

“We’ll have to go out again today, I suppose.” He shudders involuntarily at the thought and Jo whines at him once more. “Yeah, I know, I know. I’m worried too. We still don’t know what’s out there.”

Harry grabs his flint and blade, and begins lighting a small fire as he speaks. “Well, we know there are macks, I guess. And I should ask Louis what he knows too. But regardless, I’d rather go out now, when there’s more of us, you know?” Jo gazes up at him with wide eyes. “Exactly,” Harry nods, “having Louis with us is extra protection.”

A bright flame flickers to life amidst the kindling. Harry shields it with his hands, waiting attentively until he’s certain that the flame has taken hold. He pulls back from the fire, cuddling Jo to his side as they watch the glowing heat spread through the pile of dry twigs.

“You like him too, don’t you?” Harry nuzzles his face into Jo’s neck, and they sit in silence for a while. Then he adds some thicker sticks to the fire, and submerges the primrose under the water in his pot. 

“We’ve just got to be careful, girl, that’s all. We’ve got to be careful.”

As Harry sets the pot above the fire, he hears a yell, and almost jumps out of his skin.

“Harry!”

Suddenly his heart is pounding, blood rushing through his veins, the pulse of his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He grabs his blade. He feels as though his throat is collapsing, dry and tight and blocking any words from escaping. Jo jerks up from her resting position upon sensing his unease, ears perked. 

“Harry, you didn’t leave me any bloody clothes!” Louis shouts. 

An exhale rushes out of Harry like a waterfall, cascading past his lips as he drops his head back in relief. 

“I’ll get you some!” he yells back belatedly.

Louis’ answering thanks travels across the aisles to Harry’s ears just as Josephine drops back to the ground, settling into a snug resting position again.

“Alright, Jo, you watch the fire for me, then,” Harry says fondly.

By the time he reaches the aisle where Louis is bathing, with thick, comfortable clothes clutched in one hand, Harry is blushing in anticipation. He knows Louis is naked and wet, having just cleaned his body of all the dirt that had snuck into its crevices. He can feel the heat of blood rushing to his cheeks, a mixture of premature embarrassment and interest exposing itself through the flush on his skin. 

He averts his eyes when he steps into the aisle, staring determinedly at Louis’ toes curled into the floor. 

“I’m bloody freezing. Quick! Be quick.” 

Harry hurries towards Louis, offering the clothes in an outstretched hand. 

“Thank fuck,” Louis mutters, grabbing them and hastily pulling them on. Harry shuffles back, but can’t bring himself to leave. His entire body is alert, hairs standing on end the way they do when he hears a strange noise in the woods, but this time all his senses are focused on the naked man in front of him. The heat from Louis’ body, discernible in the fresh morning air, the golden skin of his knobbly knees, the fine hair littering his calves. 

Harry’s thoughts are interrupted by the sight of toes wiggling through the leg hole of the trousers Louis is tugging on. He snaps his eyes closed.

Louis clears his throat a few moments later. “All dressed,” he says. “You get a good eyeful?”

“What? No, I wasn’t– I didn’t see anything.”

“Relax, relax. I know. You’re far too noble to ogle a vulnerable, naked man.”

Harry looks at Louis’ face to find it brightened by a teasing smile, the type that makes crinkles appear by his eyes. Harry can’t help but mirror it with his own grin.

“For future reference, though, I wouldn’t have minded if you’d looked.” Louis shoots him a wink, but waggles his eyebrows so exaggeratedly that Harry can’t tell if he’s joking.

He bites a nail to hide his blushing smile. “I’ve, uh, I left the pot over the fire. I should go check on it.”

“Mmhm, sure.”

“You can shave, though.” Harry gestures towards his shaving blade which he keeps beside the sponge. “There’s a mirror above the sink.”

“Oh, thanks. I’ll go do that. Shout if you need me, yeah?”

Harry bobs his head up and down in assent, a nail still lodged between his teeth.

He heads back to the pot, pleased to find it’s just started boiling. Josephine is laying there, eyes closed as she soaks up its warmth. Harry joins her, holding his hands close to the flames in between the steps it takes to get breakfast ready. 

He’s one bite into a sweet bunch of primrose roots when Louis ambles up to them.

“Oh,” Harry says, frozen in place, “wow.”

Louis frowns and rubs a hand across his freshly shaven jaw. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look a lot younger, without the beard.”

Louis narrows his eyes as he drops down to sit beside the fire, sticking his feet out so they get warmed by the embers. “Not sure if you’re insulting me or complimenting me, to be honest.”

“Complimenting, definitely!” Harry rushes to say. “You look sweet. More… fresh faced, without it.”

“I know you think you’re being nice, but really all you’re doing is insulting my bearded self.” Louis raises an eyebrow, playfully resting his hands on his hips.

“No, no, I mean,” Harry swallows thickly, “you look good both ways. I like you both ways.”

A smirk spreads across Louis’ face like honey dripping down a tree. “Oh really?” His voice is high pitched and teasing, but Harry thinks he detects a hint of flirtation around its edges. 

Harry can do little more than hum in response as heat rises to his cheeks. “Here,” he hands Louis a bowl, carved from the thick branch of a fallen tree, with a large portion of primrose. They settle down to eat.


	5. Chapter 5

“We need to go out,” Harry blurts into the silence they’d fallen into after finishing breakfast. Thoughts and worries and possibilities are swirling around his mind as he considers the plan for the rest of the day. Louis looks at Harry from where he’d been dozing by the fire. He pushes himself up, focusing on Harry attentively.

“I don’t know how you’ll feel about that given, you know, the horde that’s out there. And I know you’re still injured. But, um, the only fresh food Jo’s eaten these past five days is two mice that she found.” Harry runs a shaky hand through his hair. “She can usually catch some rabbits, so we’ll go there, and, um, if you want to join then I’d really appreciate it. But I know you’re injured, and everything, so–”

“I’ll come.”

There’s a beat of silence as Harry lets the words settle in. “You will?”

“Yeah, sure.” Louis shrugs. “I don’t mind so much if we run into a mack, either, so long as we’re smart about it.”

More than anything else Louis has said since they met, those words make Harry recoil, igniting a spark of fear in his chest. “What?”

Louis scratches his jaw as though he expects to find a beard there. “Why did you think I was so close to the mack that attacked Jo?” The wolfdog perks up upon hearing her name, trotting over to Louis and settling her head on his lap. For the first time since inviting Louis back to his home, Harry feels wary. 

“I picked it off from the horde,” Louis explains. “Was pursuing it and we got into a scuffle in that group of garlic plants.” Harry watches cautiously as Louis rubs Jo’s shoulders.

“Uh…. Why were you pursuing a mack?”

“I wanted to interrogate it. It was a fresh one, more lucid than the rest.” 

“Interrogate it! Are you mad?”

“You can get stuff out of them, you know.” Louis says the words in the way he might ask what they’re having for dinner.

“What, you ask its intentions? _Are you a zombie who wants to bite me, or are you just here for a spot of tea?_ ” There’s a storm brewing in Harry’s chest, an amalgamation of fear and disbelief, and Louis flinches slightly at his harsh tone. 

“No, Jesus, course not. More like, where they’re headed, how many are in their horde, stuff like that.” 

Harry scoffs. “Sounds like you want to get yourself killed if you ask me.”

They stare at each other, Louis’ eyes wide and wary, a stark contrast to Harry’s glare. It’s only when Jo nudges up against him, sensing his distress, that Harry finds it within himself to loosen up. 

He nuzzles into her fur, breathing in deeply, then gently pushes her off his thighs and rises to his feet, running a hand through the tangled mess of his hair. “Sorry. I don’t know why I got so… agitated.” 

Harry bends down to collect his bowl, dropping a kiss to Jo’s forehead as he does. 

“It’s alright,” Louis says softly. Harry looks up to see him offering his bowl for Harry to take, a peace offering of sorts. Harry accepts it with a smile.

A brief inspection leaves him satisfied that they’re clean enough to be used again without washing. “Gonna put these back,” he says, and sets off towards the storage aisle. He’s attuned enough to Louis’ presence that he can make out the soft patter of his bare feet as he follows Harry down the aisle.

Harry is balancing the bowls on an uneven plate he had carved out of boredom a few seasons ago when Louis breaks the silence.

“I know where we can go to get Josephine some easy meat.”

Harry whips his head around, and a bowl clatters to the floor. “Fuck.” He snatches it up and turns to face Louis properly. “Where?” he asks, “I know these woods pretty well.”

Louis holds his hand out for the bowl, his fingers brushing against Harry’s in a way that feels profound, somehow. “The horde that arrived here a little while ago, well, I was trailing it.”

Harry’s heart stutters at the thought of actively pursuing a horde of macks, but he keeps his mouth shut. He watches as Louis places the bowl carefully beside the other crockery Harry has amassed over the years. “They have to eat, of course, and they usually settle for hunting wild animals. They left a deer carcass near the place where we first met.”

The mention of that night, of the terror Harry felt at seeing Jo in danger, sends a shiver through his body. He watches Louis in silence for a moment, until he realises a response is expected of him.`

“You… you want to go to a deer carcass left behind by a horde of macks,” he clarifies.

Louis shrugs. “It’s easy meat. It’s been more than a day since the macks were there, so it won’t be, like, contagious if she eats it.”

Harry is so shocked at the suggestion that he’s barely able to think clearly enough to form a suitable opposition to the idea. He stares at Louis, jaw hanging open, until his mind starts churning again.

“It will be rotten, won’t it?” He can feel a tension between his eyebrows, the scrunching of his forehead.

Louis shakes his head with a smile. “Nope. They killed it the night before we met, so it’s fresh enough for her, probably. It’s worth checking out, at least. If she doesn’t like it we can go to the area with all the rabbit burrows.”

“Right,” Harry nods absentmindedly, “I see.” He sinks to the ground, settling onto his bum with a sigh. Louis follows suit, sitting cross-legged in front of him.

“How do you know the macks haven’t gone back?”

“They wouldn’t have,” Louis asserts. “They’re, uh, they’re headed somewhere, I think.”

Jo comes trotting towards them as Harry narrows his eyes, tilting his head in confusion. “What?” He sinks his fingers into Jo’s fur, pulling her against him and rubbing along her flank with long strokes.

Louis drops his head back with a sigh. “What the hell,” he mutters. He faces Harry head on, and says, “They’re a lot more intelligent than people give them credit for. Different hordes can communicate with each other, somehow. All the macks I’ve come across lately are headed North.”

Harry laughs, a rough, choked sound of disbelief. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

Louis’ jaw clenches visibly. “I’m not bullshitting you, Harry.”

Harry’s brow furrows as he scratches behind Jo’s ears, the edges of a grin still floating around his lips. “Right, no, course not.”

“Why the hell would I lie?” Louis flings an arm out to the side and almost knocks his knuckles into a shelf. Harry clutches Jo to his chest, eyebrows raised. 

“Look, I just– I don’t think you’re _lying_. I think maybe you’ve read too much into this whole... super spy, mack interrogator thing you’ve got going on.”

“Oh, fuck you, Harry. You don’t know shit.”

There’s a harsh feeling building in Harry’s chest, a grating discomfort at the fact they’re arguing. It takes a bizarre amount of effort for him to bite back the comeback on this tip of his tongue and instead say, “I don’t want to fight.”

Louis glares at him, chest heaving with the force of his breaths. He brings a hand up to rub at his temples, and he looks, for a moment, far more weary and worn down than any person in their twenties should be.

“You’re right,” he admits, eventually. “Yeah, you… I shouldn’t have shouted.”

Harry lets the corner of his lips curl into a soft smile. “I shouldn’t have dismissed you like that.” He lets his shoulders slump down, watching the way Louis’ eyes soften, the tension in his muscles slackening.

Harry realises, in a way that feels somehow both sudden and gradual, that he trusts Louis. He brings a hand up to toy with his lip. “If you’re sure it’s safe,” he says slowly, “then we can go.” 

It’s a massive proclamation; trust is not something that’s given readily to others, especially for Harry. But he feels, in some place deep within his heart, his very being, that Louis wouldn’t steer them wrong. Louis rises to his feet and offers him a hand, and he grabs it, hauling himself up from the ground. 

“Thank you, Harry,” he says softly. The sincerity in his tone and openness of his gaze shows that he understands the gravity of Harry’s words. It makes Harry feel safe, makes him feel understood in a way he hasn’t felt since the night he lost his family.

“Could I hug you?” Louis whispers. Harry nods wordlessly, swallowing around the sudden dryness of his throat.

Louis’ arms wrap around him, and he hooks his chin over Harry’s shoulder. The simple human contact satisfies a hunger that’s been building within him for years. He can feel the soft strands of Louis’ hair brushing his cheek, can smell the earthy musk of his skin, can hear his steady breaths. It’s as though something releases in his chest, like all of a sudden he can breathe with ease, a tightly coiled spring stretching open. Louis’ thumb rubs over his shoulder blade tenderly, and it feels, somehow, like coming home.

***

The trip to the deer carcass is wonderfully uneventful. Louis proves to be correct about the meat; it’s good enough for Jo to eat, and there’s enough of it that she stuffs herself to the point of wanting to take a nap right in the middle of the woods.

Having Louis by his side allows Harry to ease the intensity with which he usually keeps watch when they’re out in the woods, and it feels surprisingly freeing, as though he’s experiencing his surroundings anew. He can appreciate the sounds of the birds chirping sweetly from the trees, rather than tensing at the possibility that any noise is revealing a threat. The whispering of leaves swaying in the wind sounds comforting instead of acting as a barrier to hearing approaching danger. Harry finds himself grinning at each little phenomenon he encounters, at the vibrant green of the leaves when the sun streams through them, and the content wagging of Josephine’s tail as she lopes home with her belly full.

Louis turns to him, mouth opening as if to speak, but then pauses as a matching smile spreads across his features. “You’re cute when you smile like that,” he declares.

Harry scoffs and nudges Louis’ shoulder playfully, but secretly he’s pleased. He thinks Louis knows it, too. 

On the way back, Harry feels safe enough to take a detour to collect edible plants for his stores, so they turn East and begin treading through the thick undergrowth in search of some.

He startles a little at the sound of a twig snapping, sharp and clear in the quiet air. 

“Just me,” Louis reassures him, resting a hand on his forearm. Josephine bounds ahead of them; she knows the route to their destination and likes to have a chance to sniff around the bushes on the way. The distance between them doesn’t make Harry quite as wary as it used to.

Harry’s caught up in his thoughts, half of his mind elsewhere as he relies on Louis’ ears and eyes to be alert to potential danger. Naturally, he trips over a fallen branch. 

He ends up sprawled on his front, Louis chuckling behind him, knees cushioned by a thick layer of leaves. Louis’ amusement is infectious, and suddenly Harry’s laughing too, full and hearty, as he clambers to his feet and dusts off his knees. 

“Who would’ve thought you’d be so clumsy,” Louis muses, brushing a leaf from his shoulder.

Harry gazes at him, lips stretched around a smile, teeth on display. The woods are quiet around them.

Louis brushes his fingers over Harry’s cheek. “You’ve got dimples,” he marvels.

Harry stills, suddenly. 

He hasn’t thought of his dimples for many seasons, might’ve forgotten about them if given a few more years on his own. He’s not spared them a thought since Justin, who used to comment on them all the time in that gruff voice of his. He had a habit of kissing them as they watched the sunset, prompting a series of giggles from Harry every time.

The joy Harry had felt just moments ago comes crashing down around him, like being submerged in the colossal waves of the ocean. In an instant, the warmth that had glimmered through his veins is gone.

“Yeah,” he replies, but there’s a lump in his throat that makes the word sound coarse. 

Louis must sense the shift in his demeanour, because he doesn’t say anything else, simply gives Harry’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and continues on their walk. Harry stumbles after him, heart hammering painfully behind his breast bone like the warning thump of hasty footsteps.

The trek through the woods passes in a blur; everything he’s avoided thinking about since meeting Louis is suddenly coming to the surface like snails after rainfall, slinking into his mind and eating away at his composure. By the time they reach their destination, his breaths are shaky, and he’s gripping his blade tightly enough that the metal edge digs painfully into the flesh of his palm.

“Harry?” Louis’ voice floats towards him, cautious and kind. “Harry, love, are you okay?”

Harry lets an exhale rush past his trembling lips, and uses the feeling of his constricting lungs to anchor himself in the physical world. 

“I’m fine,” he says. His mind registers, belatedly, the expansive burdock leaves in front of them, in a perfect state to be harvested. He gestures at them weakly. “We should…”

Louis shoots him a concerned glance before crouching down to break off a leaf from the base of the stalk. Harry watches until he’s sure Louis knows the right way to harvest the burdock, half his mind still stuck on far more complex, distressing thoughts, and then kneels a few metres away to collect some himself. 

In the time it takes them to fill the basket with burdock and primrose, Harry’s mind runs through a range of emotions more varied than the flowers that bloom in the westward meadow in spring. He processes each thought that rears its looming head in the way he’s learnt to do over time, using the repetitive task of gathering food to keep himself somewhat anchored to the present. 

Just as he had spent days reflecting and ruminating when he first stumbled upon the supermarket, he does so now, until his mind is settled and his heartbeat has steadied. When Louis’ fingers tap his shoulder to get his attention, he doesn’t even flinch.

“You want to head back?” Louis questions, head tilted and eyes gentle with compassion.

“Yeah,” Harry says, pleased when his voice comes out strong and steady. “Let’s head back.”

Harry leads the way back to the building, Josephine by his side. He can feel Louis’ eyes on him, and even sneaks a glance behind himself one time to catch Louis gazing at him intently. Harry finds that the thought of Louis watching him makes his skin tingle, forging a warmth within his bones and a hopeful smile on his lips.

The remainder of the day passes peacefully, their easy banter and tentative touches returning with ease. Harry finds himself laughing more than he has in the past two years of living alone, and gradually he opens up to the possibility of forming a connection with Louis that is more than fleeting. He knows that the guilt, the hurt, the panic, may return at some point, knows that he can’t forget about his past entirely, but for now he lets himself delight in his new source of joy.

The comfortable atmosphere that’s characterised their interactions so far carries forwards and grows throughout their time together, like a seedling sprouting leaves as it soaks up the sun’s rays. By the time the sun sets on the third day of knowing Louis, he no longer jumps out of his own skin, forgetting that Louis is there, when he hears a fierce sneeze or a sudden clatter down the aisle.

He allows himself to be hopeful, and he invites Louis to stay another night.

“Are you sure?” Louis asks, a crease appearing between his eyebrows when Harry suggests it. 

“Yeah, definitely.” Harry nods enthusiastically, and observes as Louis rubs a palm up his own arm, the uncertainty on his face deepening into a full frown.

“I don’t need it.” Louis’ voice is uncharacteristically quiet, directed at the ground but firm and unwavering.

Harry pauses, caught off guard by Louis’ reply. “I know,” he says softly, and hopes it’s the type of answer Louis is looking for. “I don’t, like, I’m not doing it out of pity, or anything. I just... I like your company.”

Louis’ gaze rises from the floor, settling on Harry’s eyes with a piercing intensity that makes him feel like Louis can read every thought flitting through his head. “Okay.” He scratches the back of his neck and offers Harry a tentative smile. “And I can teach you more about medicine, if you want,” Louis says.

“You don’t have to,” Harry rushes to assure him, not wanting Louis to feel like he owes Harry anything in return for providing him with a place to stay.

“I’m happy to.” Louis swipes a hand through his fringe, brushing it away from his eyes delicately. “My mum was a nurse, before, like…” he gestures broadly instead of finishing his sentence.

 _Before everything went to shit and society collapsed,_ Harry fills in, in his head.

“It’s why I know so much, anyway.” Louis leans forwards and twists a thread coming loose from Harry’s trousers around his finger. Harry is instantly aware of the proximity of their skin, his ankle tingling whenever Louis’ hand brushes over the hairs there.

“Must’ve been useful over the years,” Harry comments.

“Yeah, for sure.” A soft smile flutters around Louis’ lips as though fond memories are cycling through his mind. “She made sure I memorised everything she knows. Did it for my siblings, too.”

“You had siblings?”

Louis’ head jerks up, and the back of his hand knocks against Harry’s skin. 

“I _have_ siblings,” he says. “Present tense. They’re alive.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to– um, I just assumed, sorry.”

Louis regards him for a moment, his eyes burdened with a certain heaviness, distress exposing itself in the sudden tightness of his lips. “It’s alright. Makes sense to think that, I suppose.” 

His fingers curl around Harry’s ankle. Harry instinctively tenses his outstretched leg, knee locking straight, not willing to risk Louis’ fingers leaving his skin over something as simple as unnecessary movement. 

“I’ve got four younger siblings. Lottie’s the oldest, then Fizzy, and then the twins. Daisy and Phoebe.”

“Oh, wow. That’s a lot.”

Louis’ thumb starts stroking over Harry’s ankle, seemingly absentmindedly. Harry realises he’s been holding his breath and makes an effort not to let it out all at once. 

“Yeah, it’s the best. We used to live by the seaside, and my mum always called them our little mermaids. I’d build them mermaid tails out of the sand when we had enough time.” 

The fact that Louis feels comfortable enough to share details of his past, combined with the soft rubbing of his thumb over Harry’s ankle, lights a spark of contentment in Harry’s chest. “They’re lucky to have you as a brother,” he says, observing the way Louis’ expression softens as he talks about his family.

He’s confused when Louis’ grip tightens on his ankle and a rough laugh, completely humourless, is expelled from Louis’ throat. “Not being the best brother right now, am I?” he says bitterly.

Harry opens his mouth to ask a question but slams it shut a moment later. He shouldn’t pry. Louis sighs, tugging his knees up and circling his arms around them, and answers the question that’s on the tip of Harry’s tongue.

“We got separated. We were ambushed by Raiders and–” Louis cuts himself off with a sharp inhale and knocks his forehead into his knees.

“Louis that’s– that’s…”

Harry’s lost for words; he can hardly comprehend the distress Louis must be going through. His fingers itch with the urge to reach out and comfort Louis, to soothe the tension in his brow and the rigid line of his shoulders. 

“That wasn’t your fault,” he whispers, instead, not quite knowing where their boundaries lie. Louis scrapes his fingers through his hair, messing up the soft strands. “Can I… Do you want a hug?” Harry asks.

Louis nods, and then shuffles up to Harry and curls up with his head in Harry’s lap. Harry freezes for a moment.

“This okay?” Louis asks. 

“Yeah, yes, it’s okay,” Harry hurriedly assures him. He strokes his fingers through Louis’ hair, and feels a tender sort of pride blossom in his chest when Louis sighs sweetly in response. 

“Thanks,” Louis mumbles against Harry’s thigh.

They stay like that for a while; Harry’s fingers comb through Louis’ hair and he watches as, every time Louis’ chest deflates with an exhale, the deep lines of anguish etched into his face diminish. Jo trots over to them and rests her snout on Harry’s knees trying to join in. Louis chuckles at that, craning his neck to drop a kiss to her nose.

“Always wanted a pet,” he muses. Then his stomach rumbles, and they both laugh a little, and the mood eases from troubled to light-hearted, like a flower blooming in spring.

“Time for dinner?” Harry suggests.

“What an excellent idea.”

The usual brightness Louis usually emanates returns in full force as Harry makes their food, watching on fondly as Louis plays tug of war with Josephine. Louis’ laughter spills, abundant and unrestrained, from his lips, an endless source of joy that illuminates anything it touches.

Harry’s hopeful that, eventually, Louis won’t need to be asked every day to stay until the next morning.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry is suffocating. He’s sinking, submerged in sludge, can’t move. There are figures in the blackness, closing in on him from every angle, wolves hunting their prey with eyes scarlet like blood and teeth bared, ready to rip him apart. His mother is screaming.

He wants to move, to flee or to save her, but his feet are stuck, cemented to the ground. He tries to breathe but his nostrils, his throat, his lungs are blocked with mud, brown and sickening, no, red, stained red by spilt blood. Someone is yelling. There is blood on his hands; he can feel it, sticky and warm and not his own. A sharp cracking noise pierces the air, and thudding and snarling and screeching. Zombies are screeching, and he’s trapped, ensnared, feet stuck in the ground.

 _Run_ , somebody yells. _Just run, run, run._

His heart is pounding. He can’t feel his toes. He can’t breathe.

Harry jolts awake and takes a gasping breath. He can still see the macks stalking towards him, ravenous, and hear his mother’s screaming. His body is stuck, stuck, stuck, something heavy enclosing his limbs. There’s screeching, ear-splitting and terrifying, and yelling, too, a deep voice that’s distinctly human.

“Harry!” someone shouts.

Wetness on his hands, his arms. It’s blood, warm and dripping and fresh.

“Harry, you’re safe,” says a voice. “Harry!”

Harry’s lungs haul in another shuddering breath. His ribcage feels tight, sharp pain shooting through his chest. Josephine’s snout burrows into his stomach. He can only see darkness.

His hands are shaking and there’s yelling, still, but no screeching, no macks about to feast on his flesh.

“Harry, it’s okay, you’re safe,” the voice says again. Harry latches onto it. He’s safe.

The yelling stops abruptly, and Harry realises belatedly that the noise had come from him. Something jostles his shoulder gently. He draws in a sharp breath, and his throat loosens a little.

“It’s alright, just breathe, Harry, you’re okay,” the voice repeats. It’s Louis, he realises as some clarity returns to his mind. Josephine is there too, her fur pressing against his hands, which are wet with her slobber. He’s safe.

Harry’s entire body is shaking, his breath rushing in and out of his lungs at an alarming pace, but he understands with sudden certainty that he’s home, in his bed.

“Safe,” he croaks out. His throat feels raw, scratchy and tender, but just saying the word out loud helps to anchor it in his mind.

“Yeah, love, you’re safe, it’s okay.”

Louis’ hands are rubbing along his arm, and he must feel the way Harry’s shaking and hear his ragged breaths, but he’s not leaving. He stays by Harry’s side until he’s breathing normally again, until he’s stopped shivering and his thoughts aren’t fixated on nightmares and haunting memories.

Harry hauls his body into a sitting position as soon as his limbs have the strength to do so, causing Louis’ hand to drop from his arm. He immediately misses its comforting pressure. Harry brings both hands up to his face, refusing to look Louis in the eyes for fear of what he might find there. He rubs at his forehead wearily.

“Sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking around the word. His throat stings when he swallows.

“It’s okay,” Louis says gently. “You don’t have to apologise.”

Harry shakes his head, running his hands through his hair. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, Harry. Really.”

Louis sounds so caring, so concerned, that Harry chances a glance at his face. The sun must be approaching the horizon because there’s enough light for Harry to make out the way Louis’ eyebrows are drawn together and the flattened line of his lips. He looks worried, but there’s no hint of pity, no sign of disgust at Harry’s breakdown. Tears prick at the back of Harry’s eyes without his permission. Josephine shoves her way into his lap and presses her nose against his collarbones.

A heaving, silent sob wracks his body, sudden and unexpected. Tears fall from his eyes, no matter how desperately he tries to stop them, trailing wet tracks across his cheeks and dripping down into Josephine’s fur. Louis leans forwards and tentatively wraps him up in a hug.

The noise that is ripped from Harry’s throat is a discordant, dreadful thing. It echoes around the building, hoarse and jagged and inhuman, a lifetime of grief and struggle manifesting itself in a single sound.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Louis murmurs, rubbing his back tenderly. “Just let it out.”

Another sob is dragged out of Harry at the words, equally as distressing as the last. He hasn’t been held like this in so long. Josephine pulls her head from where it was lodged between his and Louis’ torsos, and pants against the exposed skin of Harry’s neck, licking him consolingly. Harry brings his hands up to hug Louis back, resting his forehead against Louis’ shoulder and gripping his shirt in his fists.

He clutches at Louis desperately, and he cries.

Eventually, when his tears dry up and his eyes feel sore every time he blinks, he detaches himself from Louis. He moves haltingly, creating some space between their bodies and rearranging his legs to ease the pins and needles stinging his left foot. The sun must have risen completely, because Josephine is bathed in dazzling, golden light as she lies down at the foot of his bed.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, staring determinedly at his feet, and then, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Louis whispers softly. His fingers tuck one of Harry’s stray curls of hair behind his ear. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

Harry sighs and looks up to find affectionate, blue eyes regarding him attentively. “Feeling better?” Louis asks.

“Yeah.” Harry tries to smile reassuringly. “Thank you. Truly, I– just, thank you so much.”

The usual lack of energy he expects to experience after a breakdown is absent, replaced by an unfamiliar serenity, a tranquility in his mind and a strength in his bones. Harry feels infinitely lightweight.

“It’s alright,” Louis says. “Was almost time to wake up, anyway.”

He’s been crouched on the ground, but he falls back onto his bum now, groaning a little and rubbing his hands over his knees. They must be terribly painful, if he’s been crouching like that for the full duration of Harry’s breakdown. Guilt rolls around in Harry’s ribcage unpleasantly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Louis asks hesitantly.

“They’re just nightmares.” Harry shrugs. “Flashbacks, sometimes.” He looks down again and pulls at a loose thread on the jumper that’s tangled around his waist. “I have memories of… you know. Losing people.”

Louis inhales at the words, harsh enough that Harry can hear it. “Yeah,” he says, “I understand.” There’s a weight to his words that lets Harry know he doesn’t just sympathize with Harry’s sorrow, but knows it intimately, has lived it himself. 

“You shouldn’t,” Harry says adamantly. “You shouldn’t understand.” Louis, who held Harry through one of his worst breakdowns in almost a year, who saved Josephine’s life and smiles so brightly, doesn’t deserve to have gone through the grief and anguish of losing someone he loves.

“Oh, I know,” Louis sighs. He caresses Harry’s jaw, drags a thumb over his cheek. “I know, love. Neither should you.”

Harry swallows heavily. He’d rather not dwell on such thoughts. He searches for something else they can talk about and says the first thing that comes to mind. “You could bathe again today, if you want.”

A strange noise resembling the beginning of a laugh erupts from Louis’ mouth. “That would be really nice, actually,” he says. Harry smiles down at his thighs, fingers intertwining with the loose thread from the jumper in his lap.

“Good, okay. We can, um, we can do other stuff, too. You said you could fish, yesterday, so you could teach me how to, maybe?”

Louis’ thumb rubs over his cheek once more before his fingers fall from his face. “Are there any fish in the river, here? I thought there weren’t.”

“Um, not really. But, you know, maybe I’ll move one day.” Harry lifts one shoulder and lets it drop back down heavily in an approximation of a shrug. Even the thought of moving away from this home he’s created is a terrifying, daunting prospect.

“Sure, then. Yeah, I’ll show you how to fish.” There’s a lightness to Louis’ tone that makes Harry suspect a smile is fluttering about his face. The thought warms his insides.

He pulls the thread on the jumper he’s been fiddling with hard enough that part of it unravels. “I’d like that.”

Harry tilts his head upwards, gazing at Louis, at his sincere eyes and gentle mouth. Louis’ tongue peeks out to lick over his pink lips, and Harry’s eyes track the movement. He’s consumed by the urgent need to be closer to Louis, to feel Louis’ touch.

He leans forwards gradually, drawn in by some unknown force, gaze flicking between Louis’ eyes and his lips. Louis’ hand settles on the side of his neck. When their lips touch, euphoria explodes in Harry’s brain.

Louis kisses him back immediately, chapped lips parting and moving gently beneath Harry’s own. Their teeth clack together uncomfortably for a moment, but Louis’ fingers guide his head down to a better angle, and their lips slot together perfectly.

Their mouths move in sync, like the tide being pulled one way and another by the moon. Harry loses himself in the sensation, his entire body electrified by a simple kiss. They pull back to take a deep breath of air and Harry smiles serenely at the taste of Louis lingering on his lips. He leans forwards again eagerly, fingers curling around the soft skin of Louis’ hip, but he’s met with empty space.

Harry blinks his eyes open, brows furrowing when he sees that Louis has leaned away from him. Louis’ hand slips off his neck.

“Harry, is this really the right time for this?” Louis says. His expression is tinged with hesitation, the skin between his eyebrows all pinched in concern.

“What?” Harry asks. Louis opens his mouth to respond, his lips lush and glistening, but pauses at the last moment. “What do you mean?” Harry repeats.

“Just, okay, just don’t take this the wrong way, yeah? But, are you sure you’re in a good frame of mind for this?”

Harry feels his eyes widen, a twinge of indignation rushing through him. Then he remembers the desperation with which he had wept into Louis’ shoulder a few moments ago, and admits to himself that Louis’ question is more comforting and heart-warming than it is insulting.

“I’m fine,” he says emphatically. “I’m really good, actually. Clear-minded.”

Louis doesn’t appear entirely convinced. He brings a hand up to toy with his lower lip, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

Harry nods, as though it might help get his point across. “Honestly, um, having you here made me feel a lot better. I’m not still upset and, like, trying to find comfort in…” he waves his hands between them wildly, “you, or us, together. I wouldn’t– I wouldn’t do that.”

Louis tilts his head, eyes narrowed a little and lips pursed. Harry’s gaze is drawn down to them, the delectable rose coloured flesh that he’s desperate to taste again, to swipe his tongue over.

“Okay.” He watches as Louis’ lips form the word, entranced. “I get what you mean. I’ve, uh, I’ve had similar…” Louis trails off, seemingly unable to find the right words to voice his thoughts. Harry watches as Louis’ gaze drifts down the aisle and then back towards him. Louis’ eyes are conflicted as they trace over his face, dropping to his lips and then rising back up to his eyes. With a shake of his head as if to rid himself of certain memories, Louis says, simply, “Yeah, fuck, okay.”

Louis fists a hand in Harry’s t-shirt and tugs him down so their lips can meet again.

It’s delicate and sensual at first, but it rapidly grows heated, like a wave rising from the expanse of the ocean until it’s cresting, white sea foam crashing high in the air, fiery and passionate. Soon they’re panting into each other’s mouths, lips glossy and tongues exploring teasingly. Harry nips Louis’ lower lip, then gently sucks it into his mouth with a slick sound, delighting in Louis’ moan.

Louis’ palms slide up the expanse of his back, rucking his t-shirt upwards to expose his stomach. “Take it off,” Harry murmurs against Louis’ mouth.

They break apart to tug their tops off hurriedly, and Harry can’t reign in the giddy smile that’s taken a hold of his face. He crashes their lips back together with barely a second of pause, trailing fingertips over Louis’ rib cage.

All of a sudden, Louis pulls back, inhaling sharply as though in pain. Harry freezes, his eyes snapping open.

“Just a bit, uh, a bit tender.” Louis gestures at his torso and the sight of his injuries, bruises and cuts that Harry had forgotten about, strikes Harry’s mind like a bolt of lightning.

“Shit, sorry,” he whispers, removing his hands from Louis’ skin. Louis makes a face that’s a strange mixture of a smile and a grimace. Harry finds himself asking, stupidly, “Do they still hurt?”

Louis presses a finger gently against his bruised rib and winces. “Yeah, some of them. If you press.” He drops his head down to survey the blemishes marring his skin, carefully inspecting them, twisting around as though to test how painful they are. Harry’s eyes catch on his ruffled hair, chestnut strands brushing his ears, the sun glinting off the tousled mess and leaving golden highlights behind. His nose is cutely rounded at the tip, somehow overwhelmingly endearing, contrasting the sharp cut of his cheekbones and his defined jawline.

Louis raises his head and Harry’s gaze immediately latches onto his eyes, glimmering cerulean like the ocean under the summer sun. “Be gentle and I’ll be fine,” Louis says, and then wastes no time in pressing their lips together once more.

Harry is mindful not to touch any of Louis’ injuries as they kiss, letting one hand float up to tangle in his hair instead. The kiss is gentler this time, until Louis huffs and lightly shoves Harry’s shoulders so he’s sprawled out on his back over the bed. Harry lets out an indignant grunting noise as his head lands against a soft jumper, but finds no reason to complain once Louis clambers on top of him. Louis leans down to capture Harry’s lips with his own, more heated this time, and Harry finds his hands reaching down to squeeze Louis’ arse.

Louis moans softly into his mouth, rocking back into his hands and then ducking down to suck at Harry’s neck. Harry’s fingers keep massaging Louis’ arse, even as his own body arches in pleasure under the ministrations of Louis’ mouth. He feels the hard line of Louis’ cock press into his stomach.

“Let me, let me suck you off,” he says, panting.

“Fuck, yeah,” Louis mumbles against the side of his neck. He nips at the skin there, then pulls back to regard Harry, laid out on the bed before him. Harry can feel a flush on his cheeks, heat rising to the surface, can imagine the dishevelled state of his hair and feel the tingling in his lips that means they’re puffy and berry red. He wonders distantly what Louis thinks of him, like this. 

Then Louis’ scrambling off the bed to rid himself of the rest of his clothes, eager and hurried despite his injuries. Harry drinks in the sight of him: skin glowing golden from long days in the sun, strong thighs that Harry longs to suck hickeys onto, delicate hands and delicate ankles and a flush that stretches down to his chest. And a lovely, thick cock that Harry wants to get his mouth on.

Harry shuffles up the bed until his head rests against the side of the aisle, and reaches his hands out the moment Louis has stripped off his clothes, gripping his thighs to tug him closer until Louis is straddling his chest. Harry licks his lips at the sight of Louis’ cock, half hard and flushed in front of his face.

He wraps his fingers around the base and glances up at Louis, who’s gazing at him with wild hair and blown pupils. He tucks a strand of hair behind Harry’s ear, and Harry is struck with an overwhelming wave of emotions, being handled tenderly and intimately for the first time in far too long. An inexplicable burning pressure behind his eyes, the type that develops into a waterfall of tears, prompts him to drop his gaze downwards. Now is the time for cock sucking, not crying.

“You good?” Louis murmurs, so soft and caring that Harry has to furiously blink back tears. He nods because he doesn’t quite trust his voice to remain steady, and slowly licks up the length of Louis’ cock.

Louis lets out a low sigh and slides his hand into Harry’s messy curls, fingers rubbing encouragingly over his scalp. Harry licks up his cock again, then swipes his tongue around the head, losing himself in the taste and the feel of it, and banishing all hints of complex emotions to the back of his mind to be dealt with later. He stretches his mouth around the head of Louis’ cock and sinks half way down the length of it, rubbing his tongue along the underside, and Louis groans appreciatively above him.

Despite it being years since Harry has done this, the motions are surprisingly effortless, coming back to him like muscle memory. It’s not long before he’s bobbing steadily up and down Louis’ cock, eyes closed in bliss and wet, obscene noises saturating the fresh morning air. Hushed moans and hitches of breath encourage him to suck harder, to press his tongue against Louis’ cock and let his hands come up to knead at his arse.

Louis’ hips jerk forwards as Harry brings his head down, so that almost the entire length of his cock is buried in Harry’s warm mouth. The tip of his cock hits the back of Harry’s throat, forcing him to gag. Harry pulls back hastily, eyes snapping open.

“Sorry, sorry,” Louis says, brushing Harry’s hair out of his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Harry croaks, and then coughs to clear his throat. “Stay still for me, though. Please?”

“Yeah,” Louis echoes, his breath rushing out of parted lips in little pants. “Yeah, of course.”

Harry is about to go down on him again, but a thought occurs to him. He kisses Louis’ hipbone, his cheek grazing the side of Louis’ spit-slick cock. 

“How would you feel about fingers?” he queries lightly. He slides one hand inwards from where it’s spread across the meat of Louis’ arse, so that his fingertips dip in between the cheeks. 

Louis gapes down at him for a moment and then babbles, “Jesus– yes, please.”

Harry can’t help but chuckle, digging his nose into the soft skin of Louis’ hip. “My name’s Harry, actually.” A sweet giggle flows from Louis’ lips at the joke, but it’s cut off when Harry catches Louis’ gaze as he sucks two fingers into his mouth. Louis groans, his face alive and suffused with arousal, and curls his fingers around his own cock. Harry’s eyes flick down to the sight, and a flame of irrational jealousy ignites in his chest; he wants to be the only one to get Louis off, wants to do it by himself.

“Leave it.” His tone is surprisingly blunt.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis says, imploring.

Harry just shrugs. “If you want.” He slides his fingers out of his mouth and circles them around Louis’ body. Louis releases a shaky sigh, but pulls his hand away from his cock, clenching it in the air aimlessly.

Harry grins wickedly, and then latches his lips around the head of Louis’ length as he carefully presses one finger into his hole. Louis’ head drops backwards as Harry suckles at his cock and eases his finger in deeper, blinking up at him with wide eyes.

Harry leans back, letting Louis’ cock slip out of his mouth momentarily to remind him, “Stay still,” and then swallows him down again.

This time Louis moans, unrestrained, as Harry sucks his cock and presses his finger further inside, brows furrowed as he concentrates on synchronizing his movements until his mouth is bobbing down with every thrust of his finger.

“Oh Christ,” Louis moans, the syllables drawn-out and deliciously entrancing. Harry sucks harder, and removes the hand holding the base of Louis’ cock, reaching down to gently fondle his balls. One of Louis’ hands tangles in his hair again, and the other is cupping his jaw, nails grazing the soft skin behind his ear.

“Fucking– fuck, Harry, I’m close,” Louis warns. Harry curls his finger until he feels Louis’ prostate, rubbing it gently. Louis’ body tenses, fingers tightening in Harry’s hair so that he can feel a slight sting at the roots with every downwards bob of his head. He pulls off with an obscene slurping noise.

“Come in my mouth,” Harry breathes out, warm air brushing the tip of Louis’ cock. He rubs lightly over Louis’ prostate and sucks Louis’ cock back into his mouth determinedly. His eyes are trained on Louis’ face, his jaw stretched wide and aching. Louis’ hips twitch with the obvious desire to thrust forwards.

“Holy fuck, I’m gonna–”

His thighs shudder as he comes in Harry’s mouth, fingers tightening to hold Harry’s head still, half way down his cock. Harry swallows the come flooding his mouth, holding back his gag reflex as he’s reacquainted with the bitter taste of release.

Louis’ softening cock slips from his mouth, a line of spit connecting the tip to Harry’s lips. Harry licks it off as Louis stares down at him, his face slack and serene, chest rising with heavy breaths. Harry presses his face to Louis’ groin, breathing him in, and snakes a hand down his own body, pulling his cock out from his pyjama bottoms and tugging himself off with sure, eager strokes. He inhales heavily, eyes fluttering closed as Louis’ fingers massage his scalp.

All of a sudden, Louis shuffles back so his hands are no longer in Harry’s hair. Harry fixes him with a bewildered look, hand slowing around his cock.

Louis smiles, and then dips down to kiss Harry’s chest. He moves lethargically, evidently still blissed out from his orgasm, as he makes his way down Harry’s torso, replacing the fingers wrapped around Harry’s cock with his own. He grins up at Harry, eyes twinkling mischievously. 

Louis’ fingers look delicate wrapped around his cock, and Harry finds his gaze drawn to the sight. A memory barges into his mind, unbidden, of the last person to have their hand on his dick, of brown skin and a deep laugh. A sense of guilt swirls around his brain as he recalls memories he’s spent the past two years healing from. Louis squeezes his cock, tilting his head and asking, “You okay, love?” 

Harry nods vigorously; he doesn’t want to ruin this moment. He resolves, as he often seems to be doing lately, to push the thoughts to the back of his mind to be dealt with later. He clenches his fists and focuses on Louis, on a delicate nose and soft fringe and stubble, and within moments he’s acutely aware of just how hard he is, and how desperately he wants to get off.

“Keep going, please,” Harry entreats. To his relief, Louis starts jerking him off, twisting his wrist exquisitely and mouthing at the head of Harry’s cock with glistening pink lips. Harry groans, low and guttural. Louis’ mouth feels like heaven, his tongue and his warm, panting breath enveloping the tip. The sight of his cheekbones hollowed and eyelashes fluttering is utterly entrancing. 

“So good,” Harry murmurs. Louis pulls off and trails sloppy kisses up and down the shaft while his other hand cups Harry’s balls. After so long with only his own hands for stimulation, Harry’s already close, tension building rapidly in his muscles. He clenches a fist in the fabric of his bed, unable to tear his eyes away from Louis’ face, from his pink tongue peeking out. His body jolts when Louis licks a drop of pre-come from the head of his cock.

“Gonna come, fuck.”

Harry throws his head back, and it hits a shelf on the aisle as he comes. Louis strokes him through it until Harry’s body is shaking with aftershocks and his come is easing the slide of Louis’ hand, creating a loud squelching noise with each stroke.

“Fuck,” Harry says breathlessly as Louis releases his cock. “Fuck.”

Louis giggles from where he’s positioned at the foot of Harry’s bed, the sound muffled when he presses his face into Harry’s abdomen. He slides his clean hand up the length of Harry’s body, languorous and dopey.

“That was incredible,” he says against Harry’s belly button.

“Yeah,” Harry pants, allowing his muscles to sink into the softness of his bed, “yeah, it was.”


	7. Chapter 7

Once Harry gets a taste of Louis’ skin, he can’t get enough. He spends the rest of the morning lying in bed, trailing his fingertips over Louis’ body and pressing affectionate kisses to soft lips and salty skin. They are both content to breathe beside each other, luxuriating in the intimacy and safety they’ve constructed in the tangle of Harry’s bed. 

Harry allows his mind to relax, gives his body permission to soften, to release the tension harboured within his bones. He feels, somewhere deep inside himself, a tight knot of pain and isolation give way to a gentle tidal wave of contentment, cleansing and healing him. Human contact – having a body pressed against his, holding someone and being held – is something he hasn’t experienced in years, and it’s easy to close his eyes and let a smile take over his face. Louis is kissing lazily across his collarbones, nose nudging into the tendons of Harry’s neck, the soft puffs of his exhales brushing against his skin. Harry strokes his fingers through Louis’ hair, relaxing even more when he feels Louis’ answering squeeze of his hips. Time slows to a syrupy glide, passing without any of its usual urgency. Harry doesn’t know how much of the day drifts by before he realises the pattern of their breathing has synchronised, chests expanding at the same time, as though their bodies are connected somehow.

Jo trots over, licking Harry’s face. He giggles, but firmly guides her away, wiping her slobber from his cheek and grimacing exaggeratedly. Louis laughs at the sight, his eyes a radiant blue. He pulls Jo towards him with a coo and buries his fingers in her fur, stroking down the length of her back. 

“Here,” Harry murmurs, positioning Louis’ hand behind her ears. “She likes scratches.”

There’s an overwhelming tenderness in Louis’ gaze when their eyes meet. He scratches Jo gently behind the ears, grinning when her tongue lolls out at the sensation. Harry thinks distantly that he could get used to waking up to this every morning.

When Josephine bores of getting scratches she ambles away, stretching lethargically before curling up in her own bed. Louis is watching her, a faint smile still decorating his features, hair tousled about his head and lit up by the sun like a halo. Harry slides a hand up the side of Louis’ jaw, then directs his head down to press their lips together.

The kiss has no urgency, no intentions besides a simple desire for intimacy. It appeases the flames in Harry’s chest that call for more of Louis’ body against his. He rubs his hands up Louis’ biceps, smooth skin and wiry muscle beneath his fingers. Louis’ tongue dips into his mouth, warm and wet and wonderfully sweet, prompting Harry to sigh delightedly. Louis pulls back at the sound, cheeks rosy as he observes Harry laid out below him.

“What did I ever do to deserve this?” he wonders aloud, dragging a thumb over Harry’s lips. 

Harry tries to hold back the pleased smile that grows on his face, feeling like a sappy fool. He traps Louis’s thumb between his teeth in an attempt to disguise it. Louis lets out a silent laugh, breath puffing past his pink lips, then dips down to press quick, chaste kisses along Harry’s jaw. 

When Jo next approaches them, they’re rolling around and giggling as Harry tries to evade Louis’ ticklish fingers poking into his stomach. Harry yelps indignantly as Louis pinches his nipple and then untangles himself from the bedding and crouches behind Josephine, as though that might protect him from whatever form of payback Harry has in store. Jo glances back at Louis in confusion, and Harry can’t help but bend down and kiss her snout. 

“I love you, girl,” he whispers. 

Then he flicks his eyes up to Louis, to his golden skin and bright eyes and the cheeky tilt of his head. He’s about to scramble over to him when Jo whines, butting her head into his stomach. Harry frowns down at her. Instantly he’s tuning back into the sounds around them, the chirping of birds and rustle of the wind. He glances at Louis anxiously, berating himself for not paying attention to the rest of the world, for allowing himself to be distracted for so long. A furrow appears between Louis’ eyebrows, his lips pursed.

Josephine whines again, nudging his hand and glancing at the door. 

Harry realises with a burst of relief that all she wants is to be let out to relieve herself. Air rushes out of his lungs, and his body relaxes once more. “She needs the loo,” he explains. “Just confused me for a moment. Don’t worry.”

Louis nods, standing from his crouch and stretching with a sigh. The sight freezes Harry in place; Louis is naked and dazzling and stretching in front of him, his pink nipples and fuzzy chest hair and strong thighs all on display. He’s struck for a moment by how much he wants to kiss every inch of Louis’ skin, wants to make Louis’ eyes sparkle the way they do whenever he’s overtaken by joy.

Jo whines again, and it snaps Harry back into action. He takes Jo outside, then stops off at the loo himself. When he gets back to bed, Louis is nowhere to be found.

“Louis?” he calls out.

“Getting breakfast!” is Louis’ answering shout.

Harry decides to relax in bed, knowing that Louis will bring some food back for him. He’s proven correct when Louis returns a few moments later with two bowls, setting them down on the floor. They eat leisurely, sitting in bed and trading warm smiles. Jo settles herself beside them, and steals a strip of Harry’s rabbit meat, much to Louis’ amusement. When they’re done, Harry chucks their bowls to the end of the aisle to be dealt with later. He settles his head on Louis’ shoulder and presses his fingers against the skin of Louis’ thigh.

“What are those?” Louis questions, nodding towards Harry’s books.

Harry stretches back to grab one, flicking through its worn pages. “Books,” he says. “I’ve only got four, but I read them a lot.”

Louis shuffles even closer, until they’re pressed together from shoulder to hip, and peers down at it. “That’s amazing,” he breathes. He tentatively reaches his fingers out to trail down a page. “I didn’t know you could read.”

Harry clears his throat, turning to the first page of the book, where he had scrawled his name many years ago. “We were pretty lucky when the bombs were dropped,” he says. He presses his fingers over the letters of his name, permanently inked into the page. The biological warfare that led to this reality was hard to think about even now. “Had a house in the countryside, in the middle of nowhere, and we managed to stay there until I was six. I remember my mum boarding up all the windows with cardboard when I was three. My earliest memory, I think.”

He looks up to find Louis watching him intently, empathy etched into the lines of his face. Harry takes a deep breath.

“When the disease evolved, there were only seven of us in the house. I don’t think I met anyone else between the ages of, like, three and six. I was really lucky.” He sighs as a wave of bittersweet memories assault him, and runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Anyway, my mum had a lot of spare time to teach me how to read.” He closes the book, showing Louis the front cover. “This one’s my favourite, it’s called _Little Women_.”

Louis rests his head against Harry’s shoulder, pulling him close with a hand around his waist. “I can read basic words, but I don’t think I could get through a proper book,” he says softly. Harry is immensely thankful he doesn’t ask any prying questions about his childhood.

“I could teach you,” he offers. “If you wanted to learn, that is.”

When Louis looks up at him, the expression on his face is something Harry can’t interpret. His brows are furrowed but his eyes are shimmering, their blue depths as entrancing as always. “Yeah?” Louis asks.

Harry nods. “Of course.”

***

“Fuck,” Louis says, mouth twisting with irritation. “It’s too fucking hard.”

Harry nudges Louis’ shoulder with his own. “You’re doing really well, promise. This is a tricky one, that’s all.” 

_Little Women_ is balanced on Louis’ thighs, his thumb hovering under a word as he tries to piece it together. He glances at Harry, clearly exasperated.

“I’m on chapter two, and it’s been three days. I don’t think you can consider that ‘doing well’.”

Harry sighs, and kisses Louis’ shoulder. He’s never found grumpiness attractive before, but somehow with Louis it’s endearing. “You’re learning; you won’t be able to read the whole thing straight away. Come on, try it again.”

Louis sighs, heavy and over the top because, as Harry has learnt over the past few days, he likes to be dramatic. “Tum– tumul– no, that’s wrong–”

“It was right!” Harry says, nudging him encouragingly.

“Okay, fuck, um… tumultuous?” Louis turns to face him, a grimace already spreading across his features.

“You got it right!” Harry says, probably slightly overenthusiastic. “You’re picking it up really quickly, you should be more confident, you know.”

Louis rolls his eyes but then looks down shyly with his lips pressed together, the way he does whenever Harry compliments him. Then he sighs and says, “I don’t even know what that word bloody means, though.”

“Oh, it means… something is really loud. But, like, in a bit of a chaotic way, sometimes.”

Louis nods, brows pinched together in concentration. “Okay, that makes sense because the next word is… applause. Applause, right?”

“Yep,” Harry grins, pride blossoming in his chest. 

“I only knew that because you had to tell me how to say ‘applauded’ this morning.”

“Which means you’re _learning_ ,” Harry says, insistent. Louis twists to face him, a pleased little smile gracing his face.

“And I’ve got a good teacher.”

Harry beams. 

Louis turns back to the book, reading on. “Tumultuous applause followed but reck– no it’s an s sound, right? Uh... received?”

“Mmhm,” Harry murmurs.

“But received an un…ex…pec…ted,” Louis lets out a little sigh, “an unexpected check, for the cot bed on which the dress, uh, ker– shit, cir… circle was… was boo-ilt. Fuck, what’s that?”

“Built,” Harry fills in. “You were close.” He hooks his chin over Louis’ shoulder, snaking an arm around his waist to rub gently over the smooth skin of his hip.

“Oh, right. I’m gonna start again. Tumultuous applause followed but rec– received an… unexpected check, for the cot bed, on which the dress... circle was built sud–suddenly shut up and…” Louis groans. “Fuck me.”

Harry laughs softly, squeezing Louis’ hip. 

“Oi,” Louis protests, indignant. “Don’t laugh at your student.”

Harry turns to bury his face in the crook of Louis’ neck. “Sorry, sorry, I’m not laughing at you. Just don’t think there’s ever been this much swearing when teaching someone how to read.” He huffs out another little laugh against Louis’ skin. “You’re doing really well. This is a hard sentence.”

“All these long bloody words. What’s this one?”

Harry looks up from Louis’ collarbones. “You don’t want to try it yourself?” he asks.

“No. I’m tired.” Louis’ tone is disgruntled, but in that playful way that means he isn’t actually annoyed.

“Extinguished,” Harry reads.

Louis repeats it slowly, eyes fixed on the letters as he speaks them. Then, even though they’re in the middle of a sentence, he snaps the book shut and places it on the ground. Before Harry has the time to register what’s happening, he’s been toppled over. “Enough reading for now, I think.”

Harry breaks out into a grin, and happily lets his hands drift to Louis’ arse. “You sure?” he asks. Louis’ eyes wander over his face, shining with something Harry has come to easily recognise as affection.

“Very sure,” Louis says, and promptly connects their lips.

The kiss is as addictive as every kiss he’s shared with Louis, tongues moving gently and his pulse thrumming with mounting passion. It’s not long before Louis starts letting out breathy moans and Harry feels his cock stirring in his pants at every sound. He squeezes Louis’ arse, rocking his hips up so their crotches rub together, and Louis bites at his lower lip. They kiss until they’re grinding against each other desperately, panting into each other’s mouths, their lips making obscene sucking noises in the otherwise still evening air. 

Louis pulls back, brushing a curl of hair out of Harry’s eyes. “Christ, you’re fit,” he mumbles, and then dips down and fits his mouth over Harry’s nipple. Harry gasps, clutching at Louis’ hair to anchor himself and moving his other hand to push down his waistband so he can stroke his cock. Sparks of arousal travel down his spine, his head lolling to the side at the feeling of Louis’ mouth against such a sensitive part of his body.

“Lou,” he breathes, “fuck.” The words are syrupy sweet on his tongue, drawn out like dripping honey. 

Louis hums out a little sound against his skin, bringing a hand up to play gently with his other nipple. By the time he shuffles down to kiss a trail to Harry’s belly button, Harry is somehow simultaneously gloriously relaxed and tense like a spring about to snap.

“Want you to fuck me,” Louis says as he sucks a kiss into the bone of Harry’s hips. Harry squeezes his cock, rubs the head of it against the soft skin of Louis’ cheek. 

“Yeah, I’ll make you feel so good, Lou.” He shifts his hips upwards slightly, trying to get Louis’ pink lips, his wonderfully warm, wet mouth, on his cock. Louis, ever the tease, doesn’t indulge him, instead dragging his lips lower, tugging Harry’s pants down to his knees and nibbling at the skin of his inner thighs. He bites down a little, with enough pressure that he’ll likely leave a hickey, and Harry’s cock leaks a bead of pre-come.

“Lou, please,” Harry says, swiping his thumb over the head of his cock and squirming at the feeling.

Louis switches legs, biting gently into the tender skin of his other thigh in a way that makes Harry’s hips jerk up. His hands glide up Harry’s hips, bypassing his cock to rub across his tightening stomach muscles.

“You’re such a tease,” Harry says. He feels Louis laugh softly against his inner thigh, leg twitching at the ticklish feeling. “How will I fuck you if you stay down there the whole time?”

Louis glances up from between Harry’s legs. His pupils are blown and his cheeks are flushed a gorgeous pink, but Harry’s focus is drawn to his lips, which are slick with spit.

“You make a good point,” Louis says with an impish grin. 

He slinks his way back up Harry’s body on his hands and knees, holding his gaze like a lion stalking its prey. He presses a kiss to Harry’s lips before standing up and hurrying down the aisle. “Gonna get the oil,” he calls. Harry twists his head to admire the way his bum moves with each step.

The olive oil they’d found two days prior is still beside Louis’ bed after their round of sex this morning. Harry’s about to sit up and make himself useful, but Louis points a finger at him as he strides back, oil in hand. “Stay like that. I want to ride you.” 

Harry drops his head back down on the bed so eagerly that it makes an audible noise, and he winces.

“Ow,” he says, petulant, and rubs the back of his head.

Louis stands over him and laughs fondly. “Always so clumsy,” he says. Then he pulls off his joggers, and instantly Harry’s barely aware of the faint ache of his head.

Louis straddles Harry’s hips, his naked arse right above Harry’s hard cock. Their lips crash together urgently, full of need and desire. “Clothes,” Louis mumbles into his mouth, “off, now.”

Harry breaks the kiss to tear his shirt off as Louis tugs off his own. Harry’s hands immediately rise to Louis’ waist, fingertips digging into the soft flesh. Harry inhales deeply as their mouths meet again, sliding his hands up Louis’ back just to feel his skin under his palms. He wants all of Louis, would consume him in his entirety if it were possible. Instead, he settles for breaking the kiss and fumbling with the oil, coating his fingers clumsily as Louis’ lips latch onto his neck.

“Yeah?” Harry checks, two fingers dipping between the cheeks of Louis’ arse.

Louis detaches his mouth from Harry’s throat and presses his forehead into Harry’s shoulder. “Yeah, go on,” he says.

Harry rubs his fingers over Louis’ hole, coating it with oil. Then he presses one into Louis’ tight heat, and Louis lets out a stuttering sigh against his shoulder. Harry imagines how Louis’ face must look, cheeks and nose and neck flushed the colour of roses, eyes lidded and pupils blown. “Louis,” he moans, just to taste the shape of his name, to feel the syllables run over his tongue.

“Christ, your cock’s gonna feel so good babe, come on,” Louis says, voice deeper than usual, rough and throaty. The words push Harry into action; he presses a second finger inside, groaning when Louis pushes back against his hand.

He withdraws his fingers when Louis reaches for the oil again, gasping a little as Louis wraps a slicked up hand around his cock. Then Louis kneels over Harry’s cock, rubbing it over his hole. Harry’s head lifts and then slumps back down on the bed.

Louis sinks onto his cock, and all the breath leaves Harry’s lungs.

Above him, Louis is a vision, skin glowing golden with a thin layer of sweat, messy hair sticking up in all directions, nipples pink and chest heaving with each breath. His face is lax with pleasure, mouth open on a silent groan. Harry’s gaze drops down to his cock, which is hard where it rests against Harry’s stomach, ruddy at the tip. He grips Louis’ thighs, squeezing the flesh and feeling the muscles tense under his palms.

“Fuck, kiss me,” he says, voice strained. Louis bends down to suck on Harry’s lower lip, bringing his hands up so they’re braced either side of his head. He clenches around Harry, gloriously tight and warm, then lifts up and drops back down in one fluid motion.

Harry groans, hips snapping up involuntarily. They set up a steady rhythm, Louis shoving back onto his cock with each upwards grind of Harry’s hips. They pant into each other’s mouths, and Harry’s hands roam Louis’ body, flitting over his shoulders, his hips, his bum, wanting to reach every inch of him. 

“Touch me, touch me,” Louis urges against his lips, and Harry’s all too eager to wrap his fingers around Louis’ cock. It messes up their rhythm for a moment as he figures out how to stroke Louis in time with the movement of their hips, but Louis barely seems to notice, eyes clenched shut and panting heavily as he rocks himself between Harry’s cock and hand. 

“God you’re– you’re so amazing,” Harry rambles, “so good, feels so good.” 

“Yeah,” Louis says, the word transforming into a groan as Harry thrusts particularly deep. Then he rises so he’s kneeling upright where he’s straddling Harry’s hips. Each of Harry’s thrusts now reaches even deeper, and he grips Louis’ hips for stability as he snaps his hips up in time with Louis’ bouncing. 

The change in angle clearly has him hitting the right spot, because Louis starts letting out short moans each time he drops down onto Harry’s cock. The sounds drive Harry close to the edge embarrassingly quickly.

Harry grips Louis’ cock again, jerking him off fast. He drinks in the sight before him: the way Louis’ jaw is dropped open in bliss, the furrow of his brow and his bright eyes and the pink blotches high on his cheeks. Louis gazes back at him, pupils blown.

“I’m close,” Harry warns, thrusts speeding up as he nears orgasm. Louis bats his hand off his cock, taking over and stroking himself so fast his hand’s a blur, soft noises spilling from his lips with every upwards thrust of Harry’s hips.

“So good baby, fuck, keep going,” he pants, one hand splayed across Harry’s chest to keep himself steady. Harry groans, tipping his head back and digging his fingers into the flesh of Louis’ hips. 

When he comes, the orgasm encompasses his entire body, his head lifting up from the bed with the force of it. He thrusts unevenly into Louis, groaning deeply as his thighs tense. Louis is warm and wet and tight around his cock, and looks gorgeous straddling his hips as Harry pants through the aftershocks of his orgasm.

Louis strips his cock, his entire expression suffused with arousal. “Fuck, love, look at you,” he breathes, and leans down to press his lips to Harry’s throat. 

Harry hugs Louis to his chest, panting and easing his softening cock out. He can feel their sweaty skin pressed together, the movement of Louis’ hand between them as he brings himself to orgasm. He’s aware of every place that they’re touching, the contact creating little sparks of magic on his skin.

Louis comes with a rough groan that he presses into the side of Harry’s neck, lips wet and breath hot. Harry kisses his temple, tasting the salty skin, burying his nose in the soft strands of Louis’ hair. Louis smells incredible, like fresh sweat and sex and the woods first thing in the morning. 

He’s suddenly crushed under the weight of Louis sprawling out on top of him, boneless. Louis’ come squelches between their stomachs, sticky and mildly unpleasant, but neither of them makes a move to change positions. 

Louis inhales deeply, nose pressed into the crook of Harry’s neck, lips twitching against his skin. 

“Can’t get enough of you,” he murmurs. 

Harry hums in agreement.


	8. Chapter 8

The embers of the fire glow crimson between them, the heart of the wood gleaming with its last breaths of life. Harry could spend an entire evening lost in the radiance of a dying fire, could watch the pulse of dwindling flames until he loses himself in their warmth and their tenacity. Tonight, however, his gaze rarely strays from the man in front of him, watching shadows dance across the slopes of Louis’ face as the flames flutter. Louis shimmers under the strong blaze of the fire, and once the flare of it has faded to a soft sanguine, his eyes twinkle, reflecting the remaining glow of the embers as though the light itself emanated from him. 

The crickets have taken up their nightly chorus outside, and the chill of the evening has permeated the walls of the building. The gentle crackling of the fire and the smell of it, earthy and musky and familiar, wrap around Harry, warming his body through to his bones. Jo’s head rests on Louis’ lap, her tongue lolling out contentedly as he scratches between her ears. The sight ignites a feeling of affection within Harry’s heart so vast that it’s almost overwhelming.

Louis catches him watching and a smile spreads across his face, tender and languorous, the crinkles by his eyes emerging.

“What’re you looking at?” Louis asks playfully.

Harry bites his lip to stop himself from beaming stupidly wide. “Nothing,” he says. Louis swipes his fringe across his forehead, as graceful as he always is, and suddenly the words, “You look nice,” are spilling from Harry’s mouth, unrestrained.

Louis presses his lips together, glancing down as a grin sneaks onto his face.

Josephine yawns, then lifts from Louis’ lap and makes her way over to her bed. Louis doesn’t seem bothered; he shuffles closer to Harry, hands seeking out Harry’s fingers to trace patterns over his knuckles.

Harry’s stomach swoops around his abdomen, giddy and delighted with having Louis’ attention on him, Louis’ skin touching his skin.

“Let’s go out,” Louis says.

“Out? Now?”

Louis’ fingers swirl over the palm of Harry’s hand. “Yeah…” he trails off, eyes briefly flicking up to Harry’s face. “Let’s stargaze.”

“Um, I don’t… It’s dark and I don’t know if–”

“We won’t go far. Can stay in the clearing that’s closest to the door if you want.”

Harry’s hand tightens, trapping Louis’ fingers in a loose fist. His toes curl into the floor, lips pursing.

Louis lets out a sigh, quiet and disappointed, and the sound lodges itself in Harry’s chest. He acquiesces. “Okay. Let’s go out.” He squeezes Louis’ fingers in his fist just to feel the shape of them against his palm.

Louis kisses his cheek, and then his temple, and whispers, “Thank you.” 

They wrap up in thick jumpers and amble outside, into the icy bite of the night time air. The trees loom around them, unyielding, like sentries keeping watch over the woods. The breeze is mild and blows in brief bursts, ruffling the surrounding leaves, like it wants to remind them of its potential strength. Harry buries his hands in the pockets of his jumper, tucking his chin down to conserve some heat.

It’s unexpectedly rejuvenating to feel the bitterness of frosty air flow through his lungs. At this time of night the world is silent except for the crickets and the gentle sound of their footsteps, their shoes crunching grass and leaves underfoot.

Louis meanders ahead of him, but never strays too far. He stops at the clearing, allowing Harry to stroll up behind him. Harry circles his arms around Louis’ waist, pressing their bodies together and resting his chin on Louis’ shoulder.

“Glad we came out,” he admits against the curve of Louis’ ear.

Louis hums in agreement, and tilts his head up to gaze at the sky. Harry lets his eyes fall shut; he’s safe here, with Louis and the crickets to protect him, Jo sleeping soundly back home, and no other living creature to be heard.

He eventually follows Louis’ lead, lifting his eyes to the expansive sky above them. It’s a cloudless night, and the sky is painted a deep navy colour. Stars are scattered like glitter on rich satin, a dazzling congregation of pinpricks of light assembling into a crowd of staggering beauty.

His eyes roam the sky, and then catch on the moon, seemingly innocent and gentle where it’s suspended above them. The sight of it has Harry’s hands shaking, suddenly. He’d forgotten. 

He’d forgotten that it’s the full moon tonight.

The realisation comes crashing down around him, barging through the secure, comforting bubble he’s constructed like Raiders on a rampage, snatching everything of value and leaving behind only the bleak and desolate. The night of the full moon is the time he dedicates to remembering his family. It’s the night for his mother and sister and step-dad. It’s the night for Justin.

Guilt prickles at his skin like brambles, green stalks creeping across every crevice of his mind, the bitterness of their berries taking hold in his mouth. His mother and sister and step-dad have been in his thoughts the past week, every time he read from _Little Women_ , every time he wondered what they might think of him now, whether they would be proud. But he hasn’t spared any thoughts for Justin.

Suddenly the shape of Louis’ body pressed against his own feels wrong, feels dishonest. The idea that he’s found comfort in someone else, that he’s kissed Louis’ lips and tasted Louis’ skin, that – worst of all – his heart has surrendered to the possibility of belonging to Louis, feels unforgivable. And though he knows, in the rational side of his brain, that Justin would be glad to see him with someone else after being alone for so long, there’s an agitated part of him that’s screaming like a child abandoned in the night, repeating over and over, _what are you doing?_

“Harry?”

Louis reaches for his arm, and Harry flinches. He realises abruptly that he’s no longer wrapped around Louis’ body; he’s three paces away, breath puffing past his lips in short little bursts.

“Love, you’re– you’re shaking.” Louis doesn’t reach for him again, but his hands remain outstretched, accessible should Harry require their support. “What happened?” Louis’ eyes are wide with concern, the tip of his nose flushed pink from the cold.

“I’m fine,” Harry says, and thankfully his voice remains steady. A memory surfaces in his mind, amidst the ache and turmoil, of what Justin had said to him before drifting off to sleep on their penultimate night together. _My only wish is that you are loved all your life, even if that’s by someone other than me._

Harry hadn’t understood the words at the time, couldn’t comprehend any need for them, and he hadn’t truly understood them even half a year later, when he was alone and mourning. But he thinks, maybe, he understands them now. He hangs onto the words, to the memory of Justin’s lips against his collarbones as he’d said them, whispered against his skin like a secret. _Even if that’s by someone other than me._

“I’m fine,” he says again, because Louis clearly wasn’t appeased by his reassurance the first time. Harry sucks in a lungful of icy air and releases it in a trembling breath. “I just– I don’t like the full moon, that’s all.”

Louis’ mouth opens, ready to call Harry out on what is obviously a twisting of the truth, but then it snaps shut. 

Harry brings a hand up to his lips, teeth latching onto his nail.

“You want a hug?” Louis asks, his gentle tone matching the sway of the trees’ branches around them.

Harry can’t do any more than nod. He collapses into Louis’ arms, letting himself be enveloped by the warmth of Louis’ skin, by his fresh scent and sturdy embrace. Justin’s words flow through his mind in a continual loop, like a prayer. _Even if that’s by someone other than me._

“What do you need,” Louis whispers against his temple.

Harry curls his hands into fists, trapping the soft material of Louis’ jumper between his fingers. “Talk to me,” he entreats. “About anything.”

Louis’ hands are anchoring where they’re splayed across the width of Harry’s back, his thumb rubbing over Harry’s shoulder blade soothingly. Louis sighs, and the warmth of his exhale brushes over Harry’s skin.

“When I was sixteen, my whole family relocated to the Highlands,” Louis starts, slowly at first. “I know everyone’s heard stories and myths about where the Raiders live, but honestly, it’s fucking luxury. I want to take you there one day, and we could sneak around so you could see it all. They have these showers, Christ. It’s like standing under a waterfall, but the water’s warm and it’s the perfect pressure against your skin. I only used them once, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

Harry nuzzles his nose deeper into the hollow of Louis’ collarbones. “How’d you manage that?”

Louis chuckles, and Harry feels the vibration of it against his temple. “Well, we lived on the outskirts of the Highlands, really, and to get by we’d break into their houses and steal all the extra shit they had. And one day these Raiders made a big fuss about the fact they’re leaving for two nights, and Zayn overhears them, yeah? So we break in when the house is completely empty. And, well, we basically used every fucking thing they had in there.”

Harry’s hands twist in the fabric of Louis’ jumper. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “What did you use?”

“Hmm, a great question, that.” Louis strokes a curl of hair off Harry’s forehead. “We used their oven. They had this massive fucking chicken in their fridge– you know what a fridge is?”

Harry nods against Louis’ chest eagerly.

“Right, so they had this huge, dead chicken with all the feathers plucked already. And we found herbs in their cupboards, and my mum knows how to use ovens from Before, so we just roasted this entire chicken. The whole thing!”

Harry giggles a little, letting himself get caught up in the story, carried away on a fairy tale of joy and imagination.

“Jesus, it was one of the best things I ever tasted.” Louis groans, as though simply talking about the memory has the power to bring the taste back to his tongue.

“And, oh, we played music! They had speakers which played recorded music. And we listened to music so loudly, and we danced for hours, Haz, to all the classics. And then–”

“Like what?” Harry asks, intrigued.

“Hmm?”

“Which songs did you listen to?” He lifts his head, speaking the words against the exposed skin of Louis’ neck so they aren’t quite so muffled.

“We listened to… a lot of Queen. You know them?”

Harry frowns, thinking earnestly. He lifts his head to see Louis’ eyes, their blue colour barely visible in the darkness, but their liveliness still strikingly apparent. “I think so, some songs, yeah. My step-dad used to sing them.”

“Okay, do you know ‘We Are the Champions’?”

Harry pouts and shakes his head.

“What about… ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’?”

“I think… I think so. Sing it for me?”

Immediately, Louis clears his throat, stepping back dramatically and standing up straight with his chest puffed out, as though preparing to deliver a grand speech. A grin spreads across Harry’s face as he watches Louis, endeared.

When Louis starts singing, the whole world pauses to listen. His voice is raspy and rich, cutting clearly through the still night air like a boat on a lake in the middle of summer. Louis is a few lines in, arms waving about as though conducting a miniature choir, when Harry realises that he recognises the song. He hums along, laughing when Louis realises he’s joined in and promptly dashes forwards to grab his hands.

Louis tugs him into the centre of the clearing, never ceasing in his singing, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Their faces are mirror images of soppy grins and sparkling eyes when Harry joins in with the words.

“So don’t stop me now… don’t stop me! Cause I’m having a good time, having a good time!”

Louis spins him around, and Harry stumbles over his own feet and giggles. He doesn’t know the words to the next part of the song, but he throws himself into some goofy dancing, humming along and basking in the brightness of Louis’ voice, the freedom that it brings his soul.

When Louis reaches the chorus, Harry yells the words with him, singing louder than he can ever remember doing. They’re holding hands and jumping around and singing with everything they’ve got, and Harry feels, in this moment, like his body might take flight.

“I don’t wanna stop at all!” They sing, ending the chorus on a long, drawn out note, hands raised in the hair.

“You know all the words,” Harry exclaims around a laugh. “How?”

Louis twirls him around once more, face flushed and hair ruffled like it often is first thing in the morning.

“We stole an iPod, this device that can store music, and we tapped into their electricity lines sometimes, and listened to songs that way.”

“Oh,” Harry says, “very smart.” He tugs Louis into his chest, pulling a soft ‘oof’ from Louis when their bodies bump together.

They sway like that for a while, holding each other close and basking in the joy of their impromptu performance. Around them, the crickets chirp and the tree branches swing in the wind, as though in applause. 

_My only wish is that you are loved all your life, even if that’s by someone other than me._ Justin’s words drift through Harry’s mind again, and this time he discerns a hint of encouragement in their tone. Maybe he can finally accept the words as what they were intended to be: Justin’s blessing.

Louis tilts his head back to stare at the sky. Harry admires the cut of his cheekbones and the way his tousled hair sways in the breeze. 

Louis squeezes Harry’s waist, and when he speaks, his voice is overwhelmingly gentle. “My mum always says, ‘We all live under the same stars. Wherever you are and wherever I am, we’ll always be looking at the same night sky.’ Ever since we got separated–” His voice breaks around the word. “I think about them every day. It’s why I wanted to come out tonight."

Harry presses a kiss to Louis’ jaw. “I can’t even imagine,” he murmurs. “Not knowing where they are, if they’re…”

“Yeah,” Louis says, his tone having lost the buoyancy it held just moments ago. “Yeah, it’s– it’s–”

He cuts himself off with a sigh, still gazing at the stars.

“You want to head back?” Harry asks, stroking his hands up Louis’ back.

Louis drops his head to meet Harry’s gaze. “Yeah, love. Let’s go.”


	9. Chapter 9

Harry watches, enraptured, as Josephine’s head lowers and her ears point up. Louis’ grip on his hand tightens. Josephine hunting is always a sight to behold; she never fails to capture Harry’s attention, even after all these years. He can’t imagine what it’s like for Louis, who’s never seen her stalking prey before. She’s honed in on a scent, nose twitching and feet treading silently and deliberately through the undergrowth. There is no wind; it feels as though even the air around them is intently watching the show.

She stills, and Harry squeezes Louis’ fingers tight in anticipation.

Jo pounces, driving forwards in one leap. Her jaw opens wide, reaching, pointed teeth exposed. Louis gasps softly.

Jo’s head plunges into the undergrowth, and when she emerges, there’s a struggling rabbit clasped in her mouth. Her jaw twitches until there’s a cracking sound, and the rabbit stills, hanging from her mouth by its neck.

“Holy shit,” Louis breathes.

Harry laughs softly, sharing in Louis’ awe. Jo turns to face them, head tilted as though seeking approval. Louis bounds over to her, dragging Harry along with him by the hand. Harry narrowly avoids spilling the contents of their basket of freshly harvested plants.

“Good girl!” Louis exclaims. “Fuck, that was incredible! Good job, Jo.” He scratches behind her ears, cooing at her delightedly.

“You’ve scared off the rest of them now,” Harry sighs, though he’s watching the scene before him with a smile.

Louis glances up at him. “Oh, fuck. Sorry, didn’t even think of that.”

Harry shakes his head, absentmindedly stroking Louis’ fringe out of his wide eyes. “It’s alright. We’re not exactly running low on supplies.” He places the basket on the ground and pries the rabbit from Jo’s grip, giggling a little when she’s rather reluctant to give it up.

“C’mon Jo, eat it back home, yeah?”

Louis laughs softly beside him, picking up their basket and twirling it around.

“Oi, don’t drop anything!” Harry yells good naturedly. Louis pulls a ridiculous face, and for a moment, Harry worries he’s going to throw the basket into the air. Thankfully, Louis simply swings it back and forth in his hands with a mischievous grin. 

“Time to head back,” Harry decides.

They stroll through the woods peacefully, serenaded by the joyful chirps of young birds flitting between the trees. Harry is used to Louis’ presence beside him, now. He thinks that he would feel displaced without the sound of Louis’ footsteps crunching through the undergrowth, and the comments and jokes he comes up with every day, injecting a brightness and joy into Harry’s life that he had lost in his years alone. Josephine trails a meandering path around them, intermittently pausing to sniff at the grass.

“Did you come up with Jo’s name?” Louis asks, and throws the basket from one hand to the other.

Harry eyes his movements, distractedly replying, “Yeah, I did.”

“You named her after Jo from _Little Women_ , right?”

Harry’s head snaps up to take in Louis’ side profile, the strong line of his nose and the scruffy stubble decorating his jaw. His eyelashes sweep delicately above the smooth skin of his cheeks every time he blinks.

“Yeah,” Harry says softly. He faces forwards again, watching Jo pick up a stick between her teeth and shake it about. A fond chuckle spills from his lips as he observes her. “She’s spritely and formidable, but also so gentle, so sweet. I think it fits her well.”

He shrugs, glancing at Louis to find him already staring back. Louis’ lips are curled upwards faintly, the crinkles by his eyes revealing his obvious affection.

“Yeah, love. It does.”

Jo brings them the stick, tilting her head up as though it’s a gift. Harry tries to take it, but is met with steely resistance. “You want me to take it, or not?” he asks with an amused shake of his head. Josephine tilts her head before bounding off, twig still clutched between her teeth. Harry watches her go with a roll of his eyes.

“Heads up!” Louis shouts with a laugh beside him, and Harry turns in time to be hit in the chest with their basket. Their harvested plants spill from the woven lattice, tumbling out onto the ground in a haphazard mess, Harry’s shirt dirtied with streaks of soil from their roots. The basket hits the ground with a thump.

“Louis! What the fuck?” Harry yells.

“Shit, fuck.” Louis is on him immediately, brushing mud from his shirt and then scrambling to pick up their harvest from the ground. “Fuck, I’m such an idiot, I don’t know why I did that.”

Thankfully, most of the plants seem to be salvageable. Harry sighs, rubbing his hands wearily across his face. “You’re such a dick,” he grumbles, but bends down to help Louis collect their food. He whistles to Jo, summoning her back to them.

“I know, I know. I just– I don’t know, I thought you’d catch it! I’m an idiot.” Their fingers brush as they both grab the same bundle of leaves. Harry slides his hand around Louis’ wrist, stroking his thumb over tender skin.

“It’s fine,” he says, “I went out yesterday. It’s not like we’re short on stock, back home.”

He glances up to see Louis clench his teeth, muscles in his jaw ticking. Harry’s brow furrows, and he squeezes Louis’ wrist, affectionate and reassuring.

“Really, it’s fine, Lou. We have enough–”

Louis pulls his hand from Harry’s grip. “ _You_ have enough stock at _your_ home, Harry. Not me.”

His words wash over Harry like an icy lake in the early morning. “What?”

Louis resumes piling food into the basket. “It’s yours.” His eyes are narrowed and fixed on the ground, lips pursing slightly. “It’s your stock, your food. Okay?”

Harry is dumbfounded, completely displaced by Louis’ sudden shift in temperament. He simply stares at Louis’ hardened expression in astonishment.

“Um… I mean, yeah, I guess. But it’s also–”

Two of Louis’ fingers hastily rise to press gently against Harry’s lips.

“No,” Louis says. His fingers withdraw and a sigh, laden with a thousand unspoken words that Harry can’t interpret, escapes his mouth. “Don’t say that. Just don’t, okay?”

A lump lodges itself in Harry’s throat, confusion and embarrassment fusing into a searing knot that prevents him forming any words. His mouth opens noiselessly, and then closes again.

They spend the remainder of the trek back home in silence.

***

“Fuck, Harry,” Louis moans. His hands tangle in Harry’s hair, tugging gently until the tips of their noses are brushing, until they’re sharing the same air with each breath. 

The strange feeling that had settled between them during their trip outside has thankfully faded over the course of the day, leaving Harry just as enraptured with Louis as he’s always been. Harry is lost in this man, in the sound of his voice and the feeling of Louis’ fingers weaving through his hair. He stares into the depths of Louis’ eyes, the swirling colours of cerulean, bright azure, and steel blue intermingling like the crashing waves of the ocean.

Louis connects their lips and hooks his ankles around Harry’s waist, and Harry’s cock slides deeper inside him. Harry groans into Louis’ mouth, resuming his thrusts. This – panting into each other’s mouths, arousal and adoration consuming Harry’s mind – feels like fate, like their bodies are destined to be intertwined. Like they were made for each other. They kiss sloppily for a while, until Louis detaches their mouths and buries his nose in the crook of Harry’s neck, panting.

“Love the way you smell,” he murmurs.

A smile breaks out across Harry’s face. “My smell?” he asks.

“Hmm, yeah.” Louis inhales pointedly, his face rubbing against Harry’s skin with each thrust, and a laugh floats out of Harry’s mouth on his next exhale. He never wants to stop touching Louis.

“I love your eyelashes,” Harry returns. He readjusts his weight where he’s braced on his forearms, shifting the angle slightly, and Louis’ reply gets lost in a groan.

“Right there, fuck.” Louis’ voice is raw and breathy, the way it gets when he’s nearing the edge. Those eyelashes flutter prettily, and Harry fights the urge to kiss the tender skin beneath them.

“And your eyes,” Harry pants instead, mouth dropping to the shell of Louis’ ear. “So pretty.”

Louis groans and slips a hand between their bodies, gripping his cock. A moan spills from his mouth, unrestrained. 

“Fuck, Lou,” Harry mumbles, inarticulate as Louis clenches around him.

Their bodies writhe together to an undefined rhythm, passion and lust and adoration burning between them like flames in the middle of the night. 

***

“Harry,” Louis says around a sigh a little while later, as his fingers stroke gently through Harry’s hair.

“Mmhmm?” Harry presses his nose against the bump of one of Louis’ ribs. The bruises which had marred the skin of his torso have mostly healed, and those that haven’t are now faded to a dull yellow.

“It’s been twelve days since there were any signs of macks near us.”

Harry feels his lips purse together, their bubble of post-orgasm bliss effectively ruptured. “You say the sweetest things after we fuck,” he says wryly.

Louis snorts and slaps his shoulder lightly with the back of his hand. “My point is,” Louis says, as his fingers cease their soothing motion through Harry’s hair, “the horde will have definitely moved on by now.”

Harry frowns, and shuffles up Louis’ body to rest his head on his sternum. He can hear the steady pulse of Louis’ heartbeat through his breastbone. “So?”

Louis sighs again, his chest rising and falling with the sound. His thighs squeeze Harry’s hips, and it’s not clear whether he’s tensing out of frustration, or if he’s trying to press their bodies closer.

“Do you ever plan to actually leave this place?”

Harry freezes. Time slows to a crawl, each distinct beat of his heart thudding through his ears.

“Um…” His mouth feels dry; he’s suddenly aware of how chapped his lips are, and his tongue feels strange, too clumsy in his mouth. “Um, what?”

When Louis breathes his chest rises and falls, moving Harry’s head up and then down again. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking. And I think I know where my family is going.”

Harry acquires a flood of strength, detaching himself from the clutch of Louis’ body, shifting to lie beside him, no longer touching. He stares resolutely at Louis’ shoulder, at the tanned skin and the faint line of a scar, jagged and pink.

“You think you know where your family is going,” Harry echoes.

“Yeah, there’s… before we got separated we’d heard these rumours about a city. A new city, not like the Highlands. Everyone’s calling it Haven, and they say it’s–”

“So… so you’re leaving.” The words tumble from Harry’s mouth without conscious thought; his head feels heavy, his mind sluggish.

“Harry, love–” Louis’ fingers brush over his cheek and Harry jerks away, head jolting backwards. He hears Louis sigh above him. “You didn’t think I would stay here forever, did you?” The words are said so gently, almost a whisper, as though Louis is worried the sound of them might break him.

The bliss that Harry had forged these past two weeks comes crumbling down, a glorious castle under siege, collapsing, until all that’s left is a bleak, dilapidated shell of what used to be. It’s the destruction of his fortress, of the hope and the security that Harry was finally acclimatising to, that ignites the first spark of emotion inside him, lighting the fire for a bitter anger to take hold.

“Why the fuck would I not?” The sentence flies from his mouth, harsh and thoughtless. Louis seems happy here, and Harry has allowed himself to hope so intensely that Louis would stay with him, would never leave, that he’s even convinced a part of his mind that it’s true. 

“I have a family,” Louis says, and his tone is tender, irritatingly apologetic.

Harry sits up, fists planting in the tangle of the bed. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding together. “Yeah, who you’ve lost. You have no clue where they are.”

Louis flinches, frozen for a moment like prey before the pounce of a predator. Then Louis scoots backwards, gaze hardening. “So I’m just meant to give up on them? Do you hear what you’re fucking saying?”

“Well, what, you’re gonna go out by yourself to find them? Alone? You’d be dead within days.” Harry’s breath leaves his chest in harsh pants, his fists gripping fabric tightly.

“I survived perfectly well by myself for a good few months, thanks. I don’t fucking need you, don’t need all this–”

“Perfectly well? You– you were bruised black and blue when we first met. Looked like you’d been attacked by an entire fucking horde–”

Louis scrambles up, staggering a few steps backwards. A fury burns behind his eyes and his arm flings out, stabbing a finger at Harry furiously. “Oh, fuck you! Stop– stop making yourself out to be my saviour or some shit, like you aren’t just as fucked up, all alone here, all by yourself with–”

“Shut up!” Harry yells, the words thundering from his chest, his entire body heaving with the force of it. “Fuck you, Louis!”

Louis stares at him, silent. He crosses his arms over his chest, shoulders rising and falling heavily.

“Fuck you,” Harry repeats through gritted teeth. 

They scowl at each other. Harry feels as though Louis has plucked his heart from his chest and is holding it tightly, fingers twitching like he’s simply waiting for the right time to crush it. Louis takes a deep breath, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. His hands rise to rub wearily at his face. “Well what do you fucking expect me to do, huh?”

A desperation takes hold in Harry’s thoughts, a frenzied hope that he can convince Louis to change his mind. Rage seeps out of his body like water sinking into sand, disappearing within moments. 

“Stay,” Harry begs. “Stay with me.”

“I can’t–”

“We’ve got food and shelter, guaranteed. You’ll be safe here, I promise. And Jo loves you and you haven’t finished _Little Women_ yet, either, and–”

“They’re my _family_ , Haz. I just– I can’t.”

“What good will it do them if you get yourself killed?” Harry stumbles to his feet, stepping towards Louis with shaking fingers outstretched. “What good will it do me?”

All the fight seems to leave Louis’ body at the words.

He presses himself against Harry, arms sliding around Harry’s waist and hugging him tight. “I have to go,” he says, speaking the words into the bare skin of Harry’s chest. “I just have to.”

“You don’t,” Harry insists, but he knows it’s futile. He knows he’s being selfish. Louis’ hands rub over his back, warming his skin.

“Harry, love. Did you ever really think I would stay?”

Harry doesn’t know how to say, _Yes, I’ve been foolish enough to hope for it. I want you in my life._ The words get stuck in his throat, a bitterness that he has to swallow down uncomfortably _._

“You’re leaving me,” he mumbles, instead. “You’re leaving me to be alone again.”

When Louis pulls back his gaze is earnest, eyelashes casting shadows along his cheekbones, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “I’m asking you to come with me.”

Harry’s world crumples. Louis is asking him to do the one thing he simply cannot do. He thought he’d made it clear to Louis that he won’t – that he can’t – leave his supermarket, his home, his safety. 

“I can’t,” he whispers, heart aching. “I can’t.” 


	10. Chapter 10

Harry stands in aisle sixteen, head tilted back, and gazes at the stars through the hole in the ceiling. The night sky twinkles with a smattering of stars, bright specks that shine, unwavering, across the boundless midnight blue. Permanent.

Harry rubs his hands over his upper arms, feeling goosebumps on his skin. He berates himself for falling, for opening himself up to another person, to the possibility of companionship. He berates himself for his foolishness, for his hope. A breath builds in his chest, a heavy inhale expanding inside him until his lungs ache. He releases the air gradually, and with it he imagines every thought floating out of his mind, taking residence amongst the stars, where they can’t bother him anymore.

A knocking sound startles him.

Louis peers into the aisle, knuckles resting against a shelf. His chestnut hair falls about his face, soft strands framing his eyes. There’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw, and a part of Harry longs to trail his fingers over it, to feel the scruff under his thumb. He clenches his hands into fists instead.

“Hey,” Louis says.

Harry nods his head in response. Louis approaches him until their arms are brushing, and then turns his face to the sky, mirroring Harry’s position from before he was interrupted. Harry follows suit, and they stare upwards in silence.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” Harry blurts out a while later, when he can no longer hold back the hurricane of thoughts in his mind. “About the city, whatever place you think your family is going to.”

Louis drops his head into his hands, thumbs pressing into his temples. “I wasn’t sure about it, at first. I’m still not entirely sure, to be honest.” His voice is muffled against his palms. “Though, the more I think about it, the more I feel like it’s true. You’ve gotta trust your gut, you know?”

He moves his hands from his face, running them through his hair instead, his gaze remaining fixed on the ground. “But I didn’t tell you because… well, at first you were a stranger. Then I got to know you and… I did think about it. But a lot of what I know about it comes from macks, and on that second day, when I mentioned that the horde was headed somewhere, that macks are at least somewhat intelligent…”

Louis rubs the back of his neck and pulls a lip between his teeth. “You didn’t believe me. And it bothered you, I could tell.” Louis shrugs. “Some people don’t want to be forced to admit it. The idea that– that everyone you’ve lost was killed by… That the people who were bitten might still– might still be…”

He waves a hand in the air, filling in the rest of his sentence with a vague gesture. “Some people don’t like to have to face that reality.”

Harry frowns, squeezing the flesh of his own arms to the point that his nails dig in painfully. “So you didn’t tell me because you didn’t think I could handle it, basically.” He drops to the ground and fiddles with the material of his trousers, pulling at a thread that’s come loose at the hem. The chill from outside has permeated the air, and a shiver travels through his muscles involuntarily.

“No, no. That’s– that’s not it.” Louis joins him on the floor and rests his hand on Harry’s wrist. Harry doesn’t react. “I just– I didn’t want to upset you, or disappoint you.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck off. I’m not fucking weak.” He shakes Louis’ hand off his wrist with a jerky movement.

Louis sighs and falls onto his back, hugging his arms across his chest. Harry allows himself a brief glance at Louis’ figure, at the man beside him who looks so fragile, who seems vulnerable, for once. The spirit and confidence that Louis usually displays have dissipated like leaves in a gale, and all that remains is a boy, lost in the vastness of the world.

“Okay, look, I…” Louis starts, clenching his eyes shut. “You make me really happy. This place, this little bubble, it felt like some paradise I’d stumbled into, separate from the real world. I didn’t want to break that bubble. Didn’t want to…”

He scrubs a hand over his face, stretching his cheeks in a way that makes the shadows of the night cast strange shapes across his skin. “Maybe I was being selfish,” Louis whispers. “If I didn’t mention it – if you weren’t aware of it – then I could almost ignore the fact that I would have to leave. Or something like that, I don’t know.”

Harry watches as Louis’ face crumples, his pink lips pinching as tears gather in his eyes. The darkness of the night observes them silently, the only other witness to Louis’ tears.

“Fuck,” Louis mutters to himself, wiping his eyes roughly. His voice breaks around the word, and Harry’s heart breaks along with it.

He lays down beside Louis and tangles their fingers together. “It’s okay,” Harry murmurs. He hopes that the squeeze of his hand conveys the, _I forgive you_ , that he doesn’t quite have the strength to say out loud.

“I, um,” Louis’ voice cracks again, and he clears his throat before continuing, “I really do think the city exists, even if it’s not where my family is. Getting there could help me find them, at least. And, uh, if you came with me, we could stay there together. With Jo, too.”

A weariness overtakes Harry, of the type that sinks deep into your bones and settles there for a while. “How do you know for certain that it exists, though? You don’t even have a location.”

“Why d’you think you have running water, Harry? You think it just magically appeared?”

A furrow develops between Harry’s brows, his lips pressing together.

“Someone’s got a water system going,” Louis continues, “and they’re using the old pipes. And they must be close, if your pipes are getting water as well as theirs.” He turns onto his side, facing Harry. “And I’ve gotten information out of macks. They’re all going to the city because of the potential for fresh meat. The mack you saw me kill when we first met, I’d planned to question it, figure out where the horde was going. I was only just starting to form a plan, and being here has been helpful; it’s given me space to think clearly about where I need to go, what I need to do.”

Louis shuffles closer, so that his breath brushes softly over Harry’s cheekbones with each word he says. “Come with me.”

Harry’s too drained to feel appropriately agitated by the suggestion. He simply sighs and stares at the stars and whispers, “I can’t.”

“Why? Who are you staying here for? You’re only limiting yourself, Haz.”

Harry shifts to face Louis, their eyes meeting, pleading blue clashing with resolute green.

“It’s how I’ve survived. There’s a reason I haven’t been hungry in two years; there’s a reason Jo is so strong and healthy. I made boundaries, rules, whatever you want to call them. I don’t even– I’d be dead without them. You might be able to go around stealing shit and tracking down hordes, but not all of us can live like that.”

“Fine,” Louis says. There’s an exhaustion evident in the way the words are dragged from his mouth, and a heavy sense of resignation. “Fine, then.”

Harry turns back to the stars, to the endless stretch of dark blue populated by glimmering flecks of light. He admires their steadfastness, their consistency.

“I don’t want to know when you plan to leave. I don’t want to have to say goodbye to you like that,” he tells the sky. “So just do it, and don’t tell me, okay?”

Louis brings their intertwined hands up to his mouth and kisses Harry’s wrist. “Okay,” he promises against the pulse of Harry’s veins, cold lips pressing into tender skin.

***

It’s only two days later, when Louis hurries down the bedroom aisle after bathing, that Harry fully registers the fact that Louis is leaving. Harry glances up from his book at the sound of Louis’ footsteps and is unable to tear his gaze away from the sight before him. Louis’ skin glistens, droplets of water trailing down his back as he drops a towel to the floor. He glows golden in the midday sun, his damp hair plastered to his face and his bum bouncing with each step. It hits Harry, suddenly, that this may be the last time Louis bathes in his home. This might be the last time he sees Louis naked. A cavity opens up in his chest, and his heart falls through it, splattering on the ground.

“Can’t find my fucking clothes,” Louis mutters at the end of the aisle, hunched over with one arm buried elbow-deep in his rucksack. Ordinarily, Harry would have a solution to Louis’ problem, but in this moment all he can think is, _This might be the last time_. Harry clenches his jaw and tries to commit the sight before him to memory, tracing his gaze over the pattern of Louis’ spine, the strong slope of his shoulders and delicate narrowing of his waist. Louis tugs a top from the depths of his rucksack, a threadbare, grey garment that Harry can’t remember seeing before.

“Lou.” The word escapes his mouth before he knows what he plans to say. Louis turns to face him, an eyebrow raised and the edge of his lips curved upwards.

“Hmm?”

Harry’s gaze catches on his blue eyes, on the rounded tip of his nose and the pink of his cheeks. “Um…” Harry tugs his lower lip into his mouth, teeth digging into the flesh. Louis’ thighs are thick and muscled, and a trail of fuzzy hair leads down from his navel to the soft cock hanging between them. The possibility that Louis will be gone in the morning, that this is the last time Harry will see him like this, naked and candid and relaxed, clutches at Harry’s throat.

“Like what you see?” Louis teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Harry bites harder into his lip and runs a hand through his hair. 

He clears his throat and says, “Mmhm, always.”

Louis must pick up on something in the tone of his voice, because he frowns, and his hand rises to scratch the back of his neck. They haven’t had sex since their conversation under the stars two days prior, when Harry had told Louis not to say goodbye. Though that decision pains him now, uncertainty and tension taking permanent residence in his mind, he still knows it’s for the best. Saying goodbye would hurt more.

“You okay?” Louis asks.

Harry tries to smile, but he feels the way his heartache is exposed on his face, turning his expression into an odd sort of grimace. “Yeah,” he says, and it sounds unconvincing even to his own ears.

Louis strides towards him, still naked, kneels beside him on the ground and wraps him up in a hug. _This could be the last time he hugs you_ , Harry thinks. He clutches Louis closer, fingers digging into strong back muscles, and breathes in Louis’ fresh scent.

Louis’ hand rubs up and down his back, and despite the turmoil swirling around in Harry’s brain, he feels himself relax in Louis’ hold.

“Let me touch you,” Harry whispers. “Please.”

His hand fumbles between their bodies, curling around Louis’ cock. He presses his nose against the tendons of Louis’ neck and inhales. Louis’ hand drops down to cover Harry’s fingers, halting their movement.

“Wait, love, wait a moment. What’s wrong? Are you sure you’re okay?”

Harry lifts his head up and brushes their noses together, his movements steady and tender. He rests his forehead against Louis’ and closes his eyes. “I’m fine. I just– I’m gonna miss you. I want you, want to feel you.” He squeezes Louis’ cock, leaning forwards until their lips are brushing. “I want you.” He repeats softly.

“Oh, love,” Louis sighs, a strange mixture of affection and melancholy colouring his tone. Then he connects their lips.

Their kiss is instantly passionate, almost frenzied, tongues swiping against slick lips, their teeth clacking together momentarily. Louis threads a hand through the curly hair at the back of Harry’s neck, giving it a gentle tug as he licks into his mouth. A groan escapes Harry’s throat, the sound lost between Louis’ lips and his own.

Harry starts stroking Louis’ cock, quickly building the pace in a way that makes Louis’ hand clench in his hair. _This could be the last time you kiss him_ , his mind whispers, and suddenly he longs to do everything to Louis all at once, to kiss him everywhere, to make him moan and sigh and come. To make love to him.

He pulls back from Louis’ lips and kisses down his jawline. “Let me taste you.”

Louis shivers, either at the words or the rush of Harry’s breath against his neck, and his fingers massage circles against Harry’s scalp.

They situate themselves on Harry’s bed with Louis lying on his back, damp hair spread out around his face like a halo. Harry dips down to press kisses across his chest, nuzzling into the short hairs there, and Louis’ fingers resume rubbing circles against the back of his neck. Harry allows his eyes to flutter closed, relishing in the soothing sensation and the taste of Louis’ skin against his lips.

He makes his way down Louis’ body, over the flat panes of his abdomen and the softness of his lower belly. He runs his hands up and down Louis’ torso, fingers twitching with the desire to feel every part of him, to touch every inch of smooth skin. Louis’ rib cage expands beneath Harry’s palms, and he feels as though he’s absorbing Louis’ breath, Louis’ life, Louis’ spirit. _This could be the last time you touch him_ , he thinks desperately.

Louis reaches for his cock, but Harry bats his hand away, frowning. “Let me do it,” he insists. Louis huffs, but buries his hand in the fabric of the bed instead.

Harry shuffles down the bed and kisses wetly against the bones of Louis’ hips, and then around the base of Louis’ cock until it’s fully hard, the tip ruddy and resting on his belly. Louis’ hand threads through his hair and tugs gently. Harry moans.

 _This could be the last time_ , Harry remembers, and suddenly he’s overwhelmed, consumed with the urge to drag this moment out for the rest of eternity.

“C’mon, love,” Louis murmurs, but Harry shakes his head minutely and presses his mouth to the crease where Louis’ thigh meets his groin. Louis is sensitive there, and his thighs tense on either side of Harry’s head as he bites a hickey into the flesh. He stays there for a while, nose pressed against sweaty skin, tasting Louis and breathing him in, salty and musky and glorious.

When he pulls back he surveys the mark he’s left on Louis’ skin with a satisfied smile. There’s a flush spreading down Louis’ chest and a spot of pre-come glistening at the tip of his cock, and Harry never wants to forget what he looks like, what he tastes like, what he sounds like. He presses his face into the hair at the base of Louis’ cock, breathes in and says, “Want to lick you out.”

“Baby, I swear to God.”

Louis tugs Harry’s hair harshly, pulling so Harry’s face hovers over his cock and thrusting his hips up. His cockhead brushes against Harry’s lips and Harry’s tongue flicks out briefly to taste.

“If I’m not allowed to touch my dick then you’d better start soon, love, because I–”

Louis’ sentence transforms into a groan as Harry sucks the head of his cock into his mouth.

Harry gently coaxes Louis to orgasm, taking his time, sucking him deep and then tracing his tongue on the underside, pressing sloppy kisses down Louis’ length. He loses himself in the feel of Louis in his mouth, cock hot and heavy, the taste of salty pre-come spreading over his tongue in intermittent bursts.

“Haz,” Louis pants as his thighs press against Harry’s shoulders, “baby, can I come on your face? Wanna– want to…”

He trails off as Harry flicks his tongue over the underside of his cockhead, jerking off the base of his cock and staring up at him with wide eyes. He doesn’t have to finish his sentence for Harry to understand his thoughts: he wants to make Harry messy, to see Harry with his mark, to know that, even if it’s just in this moment, Harry belongs to him.

Harry presses a thumb against the hickey he bit into the top of Louis’ thigh and lets Louis come on his face, eyes closed as sticky fluid streaks across his cheeks.

He opens his eyes to see Louis spread out before him, hair sweaty and tousled, eyes glassy and chest heaving with each breath, utterly beautiful. He’s suddenly filled with regret, with a faint sort of panic; he didn’t get to watch Louis come, and _what if this is the last time?_

Louis’ thumb swipes across his cheek, gathering up his own come and then pressing his thumb against Harry’s mouth. Harry sucks on the digit, relishing in the bitter taste that spreads across his tongue, and wraps a hand around his own hard cock.

“Can I– again?”

“What?” Louis pulls his thumb from Harry’s mouth and traces over his lips.

“Want to make you come again.”

Louis chuckles silently, head dropping back onto the bed and arm flopping across his stomach. “You’re insatiable,” he says. He gazes at Harry with gentle eyes, which flick down to Harry’s hard cock and then up again. “Go get the oil.”

Harry scrambles up in an instant.

They’re in no rush so they kiss for a long time, lips sliding and hands clutching tenderly at each other. By the time Louis is good to go again, Harry’s desperation and intensity seems to have transferred over to him too; the air is thick with mutual adoration, with reverence, and with a strange solemnity. There’s a rare gentleness to the way they touch, and Harry feels unshed tears well up behind his eyes. He fingers Louis carefully, even though Louis probably doesn’t need it, presses his forehead to Louis’ belly and tries to memorise the feeling of his hole clenching around his fingers, the way a moan will escape Louis’ throat when Harry rubs over his prostate. Harry sits up, bracing his weight on his hands, and Louis clambers on top of him. _This could be the last time_ , he thinks.

When Louis slides onto his cock, Harry presses his face into Louis’ neck and sobs silently.

They find a slow rhythm, grinding more than thrusting, kissing at intervals and then breaking apart to stare into each other’s eyes. Harry loses himself in the glassy blue of Louis’ irises, in their intensity, swimming in earnestness and adoration and sorrow. They pant against each other’s mouths, sharing the same air, and Harry clings to Louis’ back and feels a tear spill down his cheek.

There’s sweat dripping down Harry’s chest by the time Louis gets a hand on his own cock, gasping aloud and dropping his face to kiss wetly at Harry’s jaw. Harry presses his nose into the sweaty hair at Louis’ temple, soft strands brushing against his face, and inhales deeply. Louis picks up the pace, lifting higher off Harry’s cock and dropping down faster. He starts murmuring a string of praise against Harry’s neck.

“So good, baby, you’re so lovely, feel so good. God, Harry, love the way you taste.”

Harry groans and drops his hands to Louis’ hips, gripping for stability as he starts to thrust upwards. Louis lifts his head to press their foreheads together, press their mouths together, lips slick and panting hotly. Harry tastes salt, and pulls back to see tears falling down Louis’ cheeks.

“Lou,” he mumbles, but then Louis clenches around him and he grunts and thrusts deeper, and Louis rolls his head back on a silent moan.

They move in sync, passion building between them as they approach orgasm together, connected to each other as if their souls have combined. 

“Leave with me,” Louis pleads against his temple. “Baby, please. You can–” 

“Please don’t,” Harry whispers before Louis can continue. “Don’t ask me again.”

Louis’ breath is hot against his skin, rushing out of his mouth in harsh pants. His voice is strained, rough from arousal and physical exertion but raw with desperation, too. “But we could–” 

“Lou,” Harry pleads. He worries he won’t be able to deny Louis like this, that he’ll abandon rational thought and give in to the way his heart is crying out. He digs his fingers into Louis’ hips and tries not to sound broken. “Just don’t.”

Harry loses himself in the feel of Louis’ body, tries to remember every sensation. The thought that he might never touch Louis like this again clutches at his heart, burning and inescapable. Harry focuses on the noises Louis makes, the heavy pants and the groans that catch in his throat. He tries to commit it all to memory, tries to ingrain it into his brain.

This time he watches as Louis comes, as his jaw drops open and his eyes clench shut, pleasure overtaking him. Louis shudders against him, legs tensing either side of Harry’s hips, and a low, drawn out moan flows from his lips. Harry tries to take in every detail, every place their skin is pressed together, every twitch of Louis’ body, every sound that he makes as he goes lax.

Harry’s orgasm washes over him like a tidal wave soon after, a tangle of emotions crashing around his mind, and he internally curses the world, the fates, and the universe for giving them so few days together. For giving them just a brief taste of paradise.


	11. Chapter 11

The day that Louis leaves, Harry feels numb.

He wakes up, bleary eyed and warm in the cocoon of his bed, and is immediately met with Jo’s tongue licking wetly across his face. He grumbles sleepily, shoving her away and wiping her slobber from his cheek. He sits up and twists his torso until he hears the satisfying crack of his spine, and then he turns to Louis’ bed at the end of the aisle. It’s empty.

Harry knows instantly that Louis has left, knows with an unsettling certainty that he’s alone again.

Louis never wakes up before he does, and Harry has become accustomed to spending a few moments after he wakes simply admiring Louis’ sleeping form before he gets started with his day. Today, however, he falls back down into bed and stares at the ceiling instead.

His gaze is unfocused, and his fingers feel clammy, his body uncomfortably warm. He lies on his back, head devoid of any tangible thoughts, and registers the way something lumpy is digging into his spine without really feeling it. Josephine snuffs around him, but he’s barely aware of her presence.

This is different to last time, when the knowledge that he was alone, that he had no one, was accompanied by panic and grief and the sharp sting of disbelief. This time Harry feels empty, like his body is a hollow vessel, scraped clean of any purpose or desires.

Thankfully, the immobility doesn’t last long; when Jo whines at him, wanting to go outside, he finds the strength to take her out. The crisp air does wonders for his physical state, getting his blood pumping and shocking his system into moving normally again. He curls his fingertips under his armpits to keep them warm and is reminded with a jolt of the way Louis’ hands would curve into the exact same position each morning, his chest pressed against Harry’s back.

When he returns to the bedroom aisle he catches sight of a pile of clothes he doesn’t remember folding, beside Louis’ bed. In place of his rucksack and other belongings, is a stack of clothes, a book, and something else. Harry stands above the items and blinks down at them slowly.

Harry’s copy of _Little Women_ rests at the top of the pile. He sits down with his legs crossed and drags a finger over the cover. He picks it up and flicks through the pages and sees, a third of the way through, a page that is dog-eared, as though Louis might stroll back at any moment and continue reading from where he had left off. Josephine trots over and butts her snout into Harry’s shoulder, demanding attention. He absentmindedly scratches behind her ears, setting the book down on the ground.

On top of the clothes there’s some black material that, at first, Harry doesn’t recognise. He picks it up and realises that it’s Louis’ balaclava. He’s only seen Louis wear it once – on the day they met, while he killed the mack that attacked Jo. The material is shiny and synthetic and feels strange against his fingertips. It’s designed to cover the face and neck, Harry knows, and acts as a barrier to zombie bites. He frowns a little, and wonders vaguely why Louis left it behind, but doesn’t have the capacity to really think about it. He drops it to the ground.

The clothes are the ones Louis had borrowed from him since that first night. They’re a little worn but still intact and perfectly capable of providing warmth and protecting the skin. These are clothes that have been torn hastily from Louis’ body for Harry’s mouth to take their place, that have absorbed Harry’s tears and Harry’s laughter. He had assumed Louis would keep them, had thought it was implied somehow, that Harry was gifting them to him. Seeing them stacked in a neat little pile – layers of fabric that hold countless memories – should probably inspire some emotion in him, should have his gut churning or his heart wrenching. As it is, though, Harry feels hollow.

Harry spends the rest of the day going about his usual routine; he checks the barriers and defences he’s built at the entrances to the building, and then he and Jo take a trip to the meadow so she can catch some food. They take a detour on the way back, and Harry collects some primrose to stock up his supplies. It sinks in how accustomed he had grown to Louis’ presence, to the familiarity and comfort of easy companionship. The woods are uncomfortably silent, and an uneasiness itches beneath Harry’s skin. The world seems darker without Louis’ bright spirit ambling along beside him, without his constant chattering and vibrant laughter and the feeling of his hand at the small of Harry’s back.

By the time he makes his way home twilight is settling around him, the sun touching the horizon as an orange glow fades from the sky, and some real feeling starts to seep back into his bones. The first few stars emerge above him, and Harry gazes up at them and is consumed by the memory of himself and Louis dancing under the night sky and singing their euphoria to the moon. Harry’s teeth gnaw at his thumb nail, and he realises belatedly that his hands are shaking.

Louis is gone.

He stumbles over to Louis’ bed and the stack of clothes that lie there, untouched. The sight of them strikes his mind like a physical blow. He collapses onto the bed, body curled up in a ball, and buries his face in the tangle of fabric. When he breathes in, all he can smell is Louis.

Harry’s hands thread through his hair and grip tightly, and his head aches. Tears fall from his eyes like a dam has finally cracked, and he sobs quietly, chest heaving. Then he bawls. Discordant sounds rip from his throat, raw and anguished. He’s enveloped by Louis’ scent, and he shakes as he realises everything he’s lost.

When his tears eventually dry and he stands up from Louis’ bed, his throat feels scratchy and his back twinges. His future stretches before him, bleak and arid and unwelcoming. An endless stretch of desert with no one else in sight.

***

On the fourth day after Louis leaves, a resentment settles in Harry’s chest, ugly and raw and clamouring. 

He wakes up and thinks immediately of Louis, and suddenly he’s livid, rage churning behind his breastbone like a beast trying to break free.

He hauls himself to his feet and strides to the pile of clothes that Louis left behind, and he kicks them. His foot collides with soft fabric, and it’s nowhere near as satisfying as he wants it to be, and he yells – incensed roars thundering from his chest – at the fates for what they’ve done.

Harry stalks to aisle twelve, where the cabinet that Louis had unlocked is standing, unsuspecting. It feels like years ago that he was here last, with Louis’ laughter and soft words and teasing smirks. Harry rips the cabinet door open and grabs a bottle and propels it through the air. It smashes on the ground with a crash. Glass shatters, shards scattering across the floor and amber liquid trickling between the jagged edges, like blood seeping from a splintered heart.

Harry watches until one of the thin streams of whiskey reaches his toes. Then he twists to grab another bottle and hurls it at the floor.

The fury in his chest blazes, violent and uncontrollable, like a wildfire. The flames lick at his arms and singe the edges of his mind. He’s furious at Louis for leaving. Harry smashes another bottle. He’s furious at Louis for leaving the balaclava behind, as though Harry might need it more than he does.

Harry looks back at the remaining bottles and imagines the burning sensation of alcohol sliding down his throat, and the relief it might bring from the thoughts that plague his mind. He yells. But he doesn’t let himself drink any.

***

On the sixth day after Louis leaves, Harry tidies the fragments of glass that are strewn across the floor of aisle twelve. He spends the entire morning picking up every last piece and wiping up the alcohol that’s spilled, constantly having to usher Jo away so that she doesn’t get glass in her paws. He cuts his palm on a shard of glass, and blood beads, red and striking, on his skin.

***

On the seventh day, he packs himself a bag.

He’s eating lunch, alone. The meat is chewy and dry, and sticks in his throat when he tries to swallow. A single bird chirps, and nobody replies.

Louis’ absence sits heavy in his heart like a physical ache, constant and impossible to forget. Harry looks around at everything he’s achieved, at all the resources he’s amassed over the years, at the baskets he’s woven and the spoons he's carved out of wood, and he wonders what it’s all for. What’s the point in having all of this, if he has no one to share it with?

It hits him suddenly that he’d rather be out in the world, running from macks with Louis by his side, than here, alone. 

He’s been clinging for so long onto the idea that he needs to stay here, that it’s necessary, imperative for his survival. And while that might have been the case two years ago, it isn’t true now. A wave of clarity crashes through his mind, and he feels a spark of purpose ignite in his chest.

At first he’s frantic, jumping up and grabbing everything he deems important; he snatches up his blade and bat, his stock of edible plants and his dried meat. He hurries to the bedroom aisle, whirling around as he gathers the warmest jumper he owns, and thick socks and some waterproof trousers. _I’m going to leave,_ he thinks to himself, and the prospect is exciting. His heart thumps rapidly in his chest, and he stumbles over his feet in his haste, and his fingers tingle with the thrill of it all. He laughs a little and twirls in a circle before grabbing _Little Women,_ giddy like a teenager with a crush.

Jo bounds up to him, drawn in by the commotion, and he descends on her delightfully. “We’re leaving, girl! Gonna go out into the world!”

He kisses her snout, and she licks his face, and he giggles. “We’re gonna find Louis! I know you miss him, yeah, girl, I know you do.”

He sits, crossing his legs and pulling her close. “I’ll look after you, though, don’t worry. You and me, on an adventure to find Louis, yeah?” he whispers into her ear. “Might even find a city where we can stay, nice and safe.”

As he holds her close, rubbing down her flank with long strokes, his excitement fades a little and reality sets in. He scratches behind her ears and buries his face in her fur. It’s soft against his skin, and she smells like home, like family.

“I know we’ve been here a while,” he says. “But you’re okay to leave now, yeah?”

Josephine blinks at him, eyes wide and head tilted the way it does whenever she’s paying full attention to what he’s saying. Harry smooths the fur on the top of her head and then ruffles it up again. “I’m scared,” he confesses, a secret meant only for Jo’s ears. “I’m fucking terrified.”

He slows down after that, packing methodically. He’s broken through the fear that was holding him back, wiggled his fingers into a crack in the wall and is now tearing it down, brick by brick. As he looks around his home, the building that’s been his safety and comfort through so many seasons, he knows with a bittersweet certainty that he’s ready to say goodbye. He’s grown here, has matured into someone who knows how to handle himself, and he feels a confidence in his bones, a conviction that he’s ready, after two years alone. He’s become someone his mother would be proud of.

When the sun sets, he places a rucksack and two smaller bags by the building’s exit and tells himself he’ll leave first thing in the morning.

The next day, Harry wakes up early. He rises and goes to the loo, and on his way back to his bed, he sees the bags by the exit. His stomach starts churning, doubts and various _‘what if’_ s circling about his mind in nauseating loops. He passes the bags and climbs back into bed. That night, before falling asleep, he mutters to himself, “Tomorrow, I’ll do it. I’ll leave tomorrow.”

The same thing happens the next day, and the next. The bags stare at him accusingly every time he tries to ignore them, and when he gathers the courage to glance in their direction, they call out to him, forlorn and disappointed.

He wants to leave, he knows that he does. But every time he considers taking that final step, venturing out into the world entirely alone and leaving behind the security that he’s cultivated over the years, the stability that he’s now so accustomed to, an invisible force clutches at his body, gripping like a vice to his ankles, and forcefully drags him back. It’s the final brick in his wall.

***

On the eleventh day, Louis comes home.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry wakes with the rising sun and stretches with a yawn.

The chirping of birds litters the morning air, sweet and melodic. Harry’s stomach rumbles, so he clambers out of bed and fetches himself a sprig of dandelion to chew on. Above him the sky is cloudless, an uninterrupted stretch of azure blue visible through the hole in the ceiling. Harry is reminded of Louis’ eyes, which shine that same colour, and his heart pangs in his chest.

He takes a deep breath and approaches the bags resting by the exit. His eyes trace over the black straps of the rucksack, and he remembers what it feels like for the material to dig into his shoulders as he runs. He scrubs his hands across his face and groans into his palms. _I’ll leave today_ , he tells himself.

He feels like he’s getting closer to actually doing it; the longer the bags sit there, the more he gets used to the idea, truly coming to terms with what it will mean. _Today_ , he promises himself. _I mean it this time_.

“Jo!” he calls. She bounds over to him, tongue lolling out, and Harry gives her a couple of scratches before taking her outside. He opens up the exit and breathes in deeply. Crisp air flows into his lungs, bringing with it the freshness and liveliness of a brand new day. Rays of light shine through the trees, sliced by branches into dazzling beams. Jo whizzes past him, out onto grass which is sparkling with dew drops. Then she barks.

Harry snaps to attention. Josephine barks again, and suddenly she’s hurtling toward the treeline, her tail wagging enthusiastically. Harry sprints after her.

He can’t hear anything unusual, has no intuitive feeling that there’s any imminent danger, but his heart is pounding in his chest and his palms are sweating, regardless. “Heel, Jo!” he yells, voice strained. “Jo!”

His bare feet meet leaves and twigs, the undergrowth thickening as he passes the treeline. He stops in his tracks.

His heart skips a beat, a swooping sensation travelling through his body.

“Louis.”

In front of him, Louis is bent over, hands flying around Jo’s face as she bounces around in her excitement. Louis’ eyes are trained on Harry, though, wide and sparkling and everything Harry longs for. Disbelief freezes Harry in place.

“Um, hey,” Louis says. The edges of his lips curl upwards, tentative. He raises a hand in a little wave.

Jo chooses that moment to rise onto her hind legs, placing her paws on Louis’ abdomen and trying to lick his face. Louis must not have been expecting it, because he’s falling backwards, suddenly, landing on his bum with an, “Oof!”

It spurs Harry into action. 

“Shit, Lou.” He jogs forwards and reaches out a hand for Louis to grab. When their fingers touch, sparks travel down Harry’s arm, little surges of electricity that bring with them the thrum of life. Louis bats Jo away from his face, a giggle emerging from his mouth, and lets Harry tug him up until he’s standing again.

“You came back,” Harry breathes. They’re standing so close together that he can see the specks of grey in Louis’ eyes. He squeezes Louis’ hand in his. He can barely believe this is real.

“Yeah, I–” Louis bites his lip and then lets it go. “I came back.”

Their bodies collide in a hug so intense that Harry feels as though Louis is pressing the life back into his soul. He buries his face in Louis’ hair and breathes in his smell, like sweet wood and fresh sweat and morning air. Louis’ embrace envelops him, his fingers clutching at Harry’s back as though he never plans to let go. Harry feels his body slacken, muscles unwinding and a heavy exhale falling from his lips. They stand like that, entwined in each other, squeezing each other tight and then loosening to breathe, breathe, breathe. The bone deep distress that Harry’s carried since he woke up alone now escapes from his body with each flow of air from his lungs. 

“You’re back,” he whispers, needing the confirmation once more.

“I’m here, love.”

The sound of Louis’ voice washes over Harry’s mind like a soothing balm. He pulls back, and his fingers rise to Louis’ jaw. Louis’ hand slips to his waist, and they press their foreheads together. Harry’s eyes flutter closed. 

When their lips touch, every atom, every cell, every part of Harry’s body lights up in bliss. 

***

Harry lobs questions at Louis like an excited child, determining, firstly and most importantly, that Louis is uninjured, and then that he didn’t get too cold or thirsty. He can’t keep the absurdly wide grin off his face as they make their way through the supermarket and settle in his bed, wrapped up around each other like tendrils of ivy basking in the sun, with Jo resting her head across their intertwined legs.

“I’m not hungry, managed to find myself enough to eat,” Louis reassures him. “And there’s no chance I could be bitten, promise,” he adds, even though Harry didn’t ask.

“I know,” Harry says, brushing the tip of his nose against Louis’. “You wouldn’t have come back if there was.”

Louis hums in response. 

“Did you see any macks?” Harry continues.

“Not up close, no.”

“Good,” Harry breathes, his worries finally appeased. 

Louis drags his hand down from Harry’s neck to splay his fingers across his chest. “How, uh, how were you? After I left? I know I didn’t say goodbye, but you asked me not to, and I wanted to give you that, at least.”

“I was…” Harry trails off, contemplating how honest he should be. He doesn’t want to upset Louis, doesn’t want to burst the bubble of comfort that’s surrounding them. “I wasn’t great,” is what he settles on, not wanting to lie. He trails a finger down Louis’ spine and Louis shudders, beautiful, his breath fanning across Harry’s cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers.

Harry shakes his head adamantly. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

They lay together for a while, and Harry marks the passing of time by counting each rise and fall of his hand, spread across Louis’ ribs, with every breath Louis takes. The question he’s been too afraid to ask looms in his mind, clamouring restlessly inside his heart in its desperation. Every time he tries to force the words out of his mouth, stiff fingers clutch at his throat, blocking their escape.

“You want to know why I came back,” Louis says into the silence.

Harry feels himself tense, his heart thundering in his chest as soon as the words reach his ears. He nods stiffly.

“Um, yeah.” His voice is rough around the words, exposing a vulnerability that has his jaw clenching. He doesn’t think he could stand to lose Louis again.

Louis sighs and pulls back slightly, tugging at Harry’s curly hair and fixing his gaze on the movements of his fingers rather than Harry’s eyes. “I’ve never… there’s never been anyone I’ve connected with like I do with you. I’ve never been in love, never had, like, a boyfriend or anything. Always wanted one, though. I’d sort of resigned myself to, you know, dying alone, but–”

Harry opens his mouth to protest but Louis shushes him with a gentle press of fingers to his lips.

“I know I have my family. I meant ‘alone’ in terms of… a partner. I’ve always wanted to fall in love, but I never thought I’d have the chance, and even though I hated it, I’d resigned myself to it. But I think we – you and me – could really be something. And I don’t want to throw that away.”

His words settle in Harry’s chest like the first leaves that sprout in the spring, bringing with them a taste of life and hope and radiance. He rubs his thumb over Louis’ ribs and holds his breath.

“I’d picked up the tracks of a horde, and I was making plans to single one out from the group and figure out if they were going to the city or something, and it suddenly hit me that I’d left you behind. That I might never find you again. I couldn’t get you out of my mind, ever since leaving, and I figured, you know, it was worth coming back. I don’t mind…”

Louis takes a deep breath, and his gaze briefly flicks to Harry’s eyes before settling again on where he’s twisting Harry’s curls around his fingers. “I can wait for you,” Louis says. The words are spoken softly, but they echo in Harry’s mind as though they were shouted, a declaration his heart’s been yearning for.

Harry knows a grin is blooming across his face, uncontrollable. Excitement bubbles under his skin, and though he’s close to bursting with the desire to scream out his joy, to cheer like a giddy lunatic and pepper Louis’ skin with kisses for eternity, he holds himself back to hear the rest of what Louis has to say.

“The city’s not going to disappear. I know you don’t want to leave, and if that’s not going to change then it’s fine, Haz, I understand, but we never even talked about what might happen after I go.” Louis’ eyes meet his, vulnerability and determination swimming around in their depths. “We could at least try to figure something out. I could...”

Louis pulls his finger from Harry’s curls and runs it through his own hair. “I just think we could work something out. Like, if I find the city, maybe I could come back for you, or, I ca–”

“I’ll come with you.”

The words tumble from Harry’s lips: a promise, a prayer, a vow. He watches, giddy with excitement, as they register in Louis’ mind, as Louis’ pink lips part, stuck halfway through a word, as his eyebrows rise and his hand freezes where it’s threading through his hair.

“You’ll come?”

Harry nods and beams and nods again, grinning so wide he can feel the stretch in his lips. Having Louis by his side, to accompany him, to guide him and fight alongside him, is the final push he needs. “I’ll come. After you left, I realised…. Well, I’ve already got bags packed.”

A squeal erupts from Louis’ lips, high-pitched and ear splitting. Louis scrambles onto his knees and grips Harry’s face in his hands. “Baby,” he breathes, and kisses each of Harry’s cheeks and then the tip of his nose. He ruffles Harry’s hair and presses his lips to Harry’s forehead.

“You’re coming with me!” Louis tilts his face to the ceiling and lifts his hands to the sky and cheers. Harry bursts into elated laughter.

“I’m coming with you!” he yells, and launches himself at Louis’ body, attacking him with a hug. Jo jumps up and bounds around them in circles, wanting to share in their joy, so Harry tugs her into the embrace as well.

Harry presses his face into the crook of Louis’ neck, Josephine’s snout prodding gently at his chest, and he thinks to himself, _This is where I belong._

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to anyone who has read This World's Ashes. I hope you experienced as much joy reading this fic as I did writing it! Any kudos or kind comments you feel like leaving would make me the happiest person in the world! This is the first fic I've written, and also the first time I'm sharing my writing online, so any kind feedback is massively appreciated :) 
> 
> If you would like to, you can reblog my fic on tumblr. The post is [here](https://sunshineandthemoonlight.tumblr.com/post/638777415733231616/this-worlds-ashes). You can also subscribe to my ao3 account if you’d like updates for when I next post a fic! 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with my story till the end. All my love, Aria x  
> 


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